


In Silence

by PurrpleCat



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, Frodo and Sam are wee sweethearts, Grief/Mourning, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Romance, Slow Burn, Thorin and his nephews are dead, but not soulmate AU, hobbits are aresholes, mention of soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-13 18:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2160318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurrpleCat/pseuds/PurrpleCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"„Dwalin, son of Fundin,” Dain says above him, his voice devoid of any emotion, „You are banished forthwith from the Kingdom of Erebor under pain of death.” Dwalin can almost hear the smile in his voice as he says: „Bring me his beard.” </p><p>He can hear Balin scream, but he cannot recognize the words – blood is pounding in his ears, horror making him freeze. He closes his eyes tightly, swallows. This is what he wants, he reminds himself. This is what he deserves.</p><p>Thorin, he thinks as one of the guards yanks his head back and puts a blade to his chin. Forgive me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Bilbo/Dwalin fanfic, so I beg you, go easy on me. I usually write Bagginshield, but... I think Dwalin deserves some love too :) 
> 
> The title is taken from a poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning titled "Grief":
> 
> I tell you hopeless grief is passionless,  
> That only men incredulous of despair,  
> Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air  
> Beat upward to God's throne in loud access  
> Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness  
> In souls, as countries, lieth silent-bare  
> Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare  
> Of the absolute heavens. Deep-hearted man, express  
> Grief for thy dead in silence like to death-  
> Most like a monumental statue set  
> In everlasting watch and moveless woe  
> Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.  
> Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet;  
> If it could weep, it could arise and go.

When the dust settles and the battle is won, Thorin Oakenshield is laid to rest in stone from whence all dwarves are said to have sprung, with Orcrist in his hand and the Arkenstone on his breast. His nephews are burried next to him, Kili with his broken bow and Fili with his twin swords, their tombs so close they are almost touching.

 _It fits,_ Dwalin thinks, _together even in death._

He stands in front of Thorin's grave, silent and dry-eyed. His friend, his King, dead. Dead because Dwalin could not reach him in time; dead because Dwalin was too slow, because he didn't fight hard enough. Thorin was dead, burried in cold, cold stone, never to see the splendour of Erebor restored. Dead because Dwalin had failed him in battle.

He was supposed to protect him, watch his back. Instead, he allowed the orcs to push him back and away from his King, and no matter how hard he swung his axes he could not break through the enemy ranks. He should have tried harder, should have been there to take the blow that laid down his friend. Fili and Kili took on his role to protect the King and so they perished too.

He has failed and because of his stupid mistakes Thorin and his nephews are dead.

Dwalin lowers his head, crossing his arms on his breast so tight he can barely breathe. There are no tears to wash away his grief – his eyes remain red from exhaustion but dry, empty as if someone had sucked the very life out of him.

He has no purpose now, no duty to uphold. There is no one to whom he could pledge his love and loyalty, no other King could compare to Thorin, least of all Dain.

Dwalin snarls. Treacherous worm, cowardly _dog_ who had refused aid to his own _kin_ when they needed it most. Ironfoot and his armies came only because they believed Thorin had that blasted stone – his loyalty lay with a piece of cold jewel where it should be with Thorin himself, his _cousin_ , Arkenstone or no Arkenstone. Maybe if Dain had not pledged his loyalty to the King's Jewel, Thorin wouldn't be so set on finding it, the madness the gem brought upon him would not fester in his mind as it did, it would not blind him and he would be alive, and whole, and happy...

No. No, he cannot blame Dain. Thorin's death is his fault, only his. Had he been there...

„Brother.”

Dwalin grunts in response, his eyes locked on his dear friend's tomb. Balins hand is heavy on his shoulder and he swallows, thick fingers tightening on his armour-clad biceps.

„Come, brother. Our King wants to speak with you.”

Dwalin wants to snap that _his_ King is dead, dead and gone, and Dain can go and throw himself down the battlements for all he cares. But he swallows his anger and nods. He straigthens (he didn't even notice his shoulders were slumped, as if grief was physically pushing him down) and adjusts his armour. It is golden, armour of the King's Guard, and he wants to scream, fall to his knees in front of Thorin's tomb, beg for forgiveness because it was _him_ he was supposed to guard, not _Dain_. Instead, he nods to his King, his friend, one more time in a final goodbye and leaves, Balin a solid presence behind him. His armour is heavy on his shoulders though he knows it is lighter than his usual garb. He refused to wear it when it was presented to him this morning by the servants but he was told that „His Majesty insists” and so he complied. For now.

Balin's hand rests on his forearm and his older brother gazes at him with knowing eyes. His fingers tighten around the golden gauntlet.

„Do not be foolish,” Balin says. Dwalin averts his gaze, looking firmly ahead.

_I'm sorry, brother._

 

_*_

 

„Do you, Dwalin, son of Fundin, accept His Majesty Dain Ironfoot as your King and swear your allegiance to him and the crown of Erebor?”

There is a complete silence in the court room. Dwalin is kneeling in front of the throne, the throne that's Thorin's by right, armour digging painfully into his skin. The ceremorial garb is uncomfortable, heavy and yet light, and he finds himself almost unable to breathe. Dain looks at him grimly, his expression unreadable. His robes are blue, the kind of blue Dwalin knows Thorin has always favoured, and undilated fury claws at his chest. He can feel his lips twist in a snarl and he is about to say something when a whisper shatters the silence:

„ _King-slayer._ ”

He can feel his body go completely still, rigid, blood freezing in his veins. He can see Balin's outraged face, Bifur's aggressive gestures and grunts, Ori's pale face. He closes his eyes, swallows heavily and bows his head. His voice is strong and unyelding when he says:

„I, Dwalin, son of Fundin, pledge loyalty to my King,” his voice cracks at the last word, and Dain narrows his eyes in suspicion, leaning forward on his throne. His robes whisper as he moves, a soft murmur of cloth on stone, and Dwalin lifts his eyes to look at him, „Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror-”

He's interrupted by furious shouts of the crowd, his words drowning in curses and insults thrown his way, but he has little care for them. His eyes are locked on Dain, hard as stone and equaly cold.

„-the rightful heir and King Under the Mountain.”

Dain's face is a mask of rage, but his eyes are glittering with satisfaction. The court is in an uproar, dwarves yelling and milling about like panicked ants. Guards appear at Dwalin's side, grabbing his arms and he lets them pull him to his feet. He looks at his brother. Balin is pale, almost as white as his beard, and Dwalin wants to laugh. He allows a small smile grace his lips when Balin catches his eye, but his older brother shakes his head slightly, grief clear in his eyes.

Dain rises from the throne and a hush falls over the court room. His gaze sweeps along the crowd of dwarves, cold and calculating, only to stop on Dwalin.

„Thorin Oakenshield is dead, so are his nephews,” he says and the warrior flinches. „I am the rightful heir to the throne of Erebor. If you do not pledge your loyalty to me you will be exiled, Dwalin, son of Fundin, as a traitor to the crown.” There was complete silence. „What say you?”

Dwalin leans forward, the guards' hands tight on his shoulders. His face twists in a parody of a smile. „I say,” he answers, loud enough for everyone to hear, „Ishkhaqwi ai durugnul, you spineless cur!”

The guards' reaction is imidiate – they force Dwalin back onto his knees, dragging his neck forward until his forehead slams against the cold floor. White spots dance in front of his eyes and he grunts in pain. He breathes deeply, his fingers curling into fists. He can easily shrug the guards off, but doesn't. He waits instead, listening to Dain's footsteps and the whisper of his robes as he moves towards him. A pair of polished black boots appears in front of his eyes and he snarls when their iron points touch his bowed head.

„Dwalin, son of Fundin,” Dain says above him, his voice devoid of any emotion, „You are banished forthwith from the Kingdom of Erebor under pain of death.” Dwalin can almost hear the smile in his voice as he says: „Bring me his beard.”

He can hear Balin scream, but he cannot recognize the words – blood is pounding in his ears, horror making him freeze. He closes his eyes tightly, swallows. This is what he wants, he reminds himself. This is what he deserves.

 _Thorin_ , he thinks as one of the guards yanks his head back and puts a blade to his chin. _Forgive me._

The guard's ceremonial sword is slightly dull and it scrapes aginst his skin painfully as his beard falls at Dain's feet, black and grey hair a stark contrast against the white stone on the ground. He can hear his own heavy breathing as the blade moves, again and again, cutting skin as well as hair. Blood flows down his chin, warm and sticky. It smells like iron, like death, like the tent where Thorin died in the halflings' arms. Dwalin deserves every single second of this torture.

He can feel the cold air on his face and shudders, but his shoulders are rigid, tense. He will not show weakness, not in front of Dain. He will be strong. It is his _choice._

„His hair, too.”

He cannot stop a quiet moan that pushes past his tightly closed lips. If Dain hears it he makes no comment, and the guard's sword moves to the back of Dwalin's head. The process begins anew, more painful as the hair on his head is thicker and stronger than those on his chin. The guard presses the blade hard enough to wound, taking his hair together with chunks of skin. Dwalin grunts as agony hits, clenches his teeth defiantly. Dain will not hear him scream. He will _not._

Mahal, it hurts.

Thorin's face flashes before his eyes, bloodied and sickly pale. His eyes close so tight he can see white spots dance under his lids.

He deserves this. All of it.

_Thorin. Forgive me._

 

*

Ered Luin turns him away.

Dwalin is not surprised. He knew Dain will send ravens to all dwarven kingdoms pronoucing him a traitor. Even if Dain's word hadn't been enough, the lack of beard and hair is enough of a message to the other dwarves - enough to mark him as an exile.

The wounds on his chin and head had scarred, as he suspected. Balin tried treating them after the guards released him and he was escorted to his house to get his belongings, but Dwalin refused. He washed off the blood under the guards' watchful eyes, packed only the essentials (it was wiser to travel light after all) and embraced his brother for what would be the last time.

„You fool,” Balin said, his forehead digging painfully into his. Dwalin tried to laugh, but it sounded wrong, like he was choking on air, so he swallowed and closed his eyes instead.

„Forgive me, brother.”

Balin sighed heavily.

„There is nothing to forgive,” he murmured. „You should have told me, I would have...”

Dwalin pushed his brother gently away then, his fingers tight on the other's shoulder.

„No. Erebor needs you, Balin, and you need Erebor. I will be fine. I always am.”

They embraced one more time, Balin's eyes too bright, and Dwalin left. With Grasper and Keeper slung across his back, and his pack, he left the Lonely Mountain and did not look behind.

Dwalin sighs, adjusting the strap digging into his shoulders. Since no dwarven kingdom would allow him to live in their halls the only option he has is to live among Men. He scowls, an ugly grimace of anger and grief twisting his features. Clenching his teeth, he breaths out through his nose, rolling his shoulders to relax tense muscles. It is what he deserves for failing his King, after all. _King-slayer,_ his mind whispers and he shudders violently.

Bree is the closest town of Men in these parts of the Middle-Earth and he knows that the people there are in need of a good blacksmith, or at least _were_ when he stopped at the Prancing Pony on his way to Ered Luin. He nods to himself: yes, that could work. With no beard (his heart clenches painfuly at the thought) and hair he could easily pass as a Man – a rather short Man, yes, but a Man nonetheless.

He will have to cross the Shire again, the green, peaceful Shire that has never experienced war or hardship. He considers stopping by and visiting the Burglar, but banishes the thought quickly. They were never close, not even when they were traveling together, and it would not do to burden the halfling with his presence.

„Bree it is,” he murmurs to himself and winces at the sound of his own voice. It's gruff, scratchy, almost unaudible and he realizes he has not spoken to anyone for nearly a month. He tended to keep away from the main roads on his way to the Blue Mountains, traveling across fields instead, avoiding merchants and travelers going to and from Ered Luin. He clears his throat, shakes his head. It makes no difference. He has never been one for talking anyway, speaking only when he has something relevant to say. Idle chatter about nothing holds no appeal to him.

He reaches behind, touching lightly the very edge of Keeper's sharp blade. It comforts him somewhat, the cold iron soothing his ragged nerves. He takes a deep breath and sets out for Bree, leaving Ered Luin behind him.

 

*

„Is that a dwarf?”

„Don't be stupid, Sam, he doesn't have a beard. Uncle says all dwarves have 'em!”

Dwalin continues to work, striking the hot iron with his hammer. His arms ache a little after whole day of work at the smithy and he can feel cool sweat gather on his flushed forehead. He glances over to the entrance of the workshop – there are two boys peeking around the door at him, hobbit children judging by their tiny bodies and curly hair. One of them is blackhaired, his thick, healthy curls falling into his eyes with every bounce as he tries to get a better look. The other's hair is very light brown, like a fawn's coat, and his pudgy cheeks redden when he realizes Dwalin has caught them looking. He squeaks like a mouse and darts out of sight, tugging the other with him.

Dwalin shakes his head, smiling a little. They remind him of the princes when they were but wee dwarflings, innocent and mischievous, always full of questions that noone seemed to know the answer to. They used to pester him constantly, trotting after him like particularly loud and hairy puppies, watching him train with wide awe-struck eyes.

He clenches his teeth at the pain, the memories resurfacing despite his best efforts to not _think_ , to forget, drown himself in work and get tired enough to simply collapse onto his bedding and sleep dreamlessly for once. It never works, but he doesn't stop trying.

He puts down the hammer, leaning against the worktop as he wipes the sweat off with the back of his hand. His landlord's wife has left a pitcher of cool ale near the door and he drinks in long great gulps. It's bitter and watered down but he doesn't mind. He's had worse.

There is an unmistakable giggle coming from behind the door and he turns his head slightly to look – the lads are still there, watching his every move and nudging each other, whispering heatedly.

Dwalin leaves them to it, picking up his hammer again.

He had been in Bree for months now, working at the local smithy. He was right – the people of Bree needed a good blacksmith, since their old one became... well, old. Dwalin took over his workshop and rented a room above it for the little gold he had left. As he suspected, the Men mistook him for one of their own and he has been treated warily but with respect – he's sure they would not be so kind to him have they known he's a Dwarf. His race, after all, is thought to be greedy and overly proud, and others were highly suspicious of his kind.

Elven propaganda, no doubt.

Another high giggle interrupts his mussing and he sighs heavily.

„'Scuse me, Master Smith, sir,” comes a little voice and he peers down over the counter only to look right into bright blue eyes set in a small, flushed hobbit face. The lad is shuffling his feet, his hands clasped in front of him. He gazes at Dwalin with wide eyes, wary but curious.

„What is it, lad?” he asks and winces. His voice sounds harsh and unpleasant, and the boy looks down, abashed. _Mahal damn it._

„Sir,” he says with his eyes fixed on his large feet. The tips of his ears are flushed pink, „are you a dwarf?”

Dwalin gazes at the lad in silence, unsure what to say. The little hobbit lifts his head and stares back, almost bouncing on his heels with impatience. He is not a dwarf, not anymore, not since he lost his honour along with his beard and hair. He's nobody.

He swallows around a lump that suddenly appears in his throat. The lad is still waiting and he opens his mouth to say _something_ when another voice interrupts him. A voice he knows, a voice that wakes old memories. The last time he had heard that voice had been back in Erebor, the Burglar sitting on a log outside Thor... the _King's_ tent and weeping, his heartbreaking sobs interrupted only by the King's name repeated over and over again as he cried.

„Frodo! Frodo, m'boy, where are you? Sam? Oh, _confound it_...”

The boy with tawny hair darts into the smithy and tuggs on his friend's sleeve.

„It's Master Bilbo! He's lookin' for us!”

Dwalin turns around swiftly, standing with his back towards the door. Taking the half-forged blade out of the fire, he lays it on the anvil, rises the hammer above his head and swings it in one powerful move. Again and again he strikes the red-hot steel, drowning out the lads' high voices. He concentrates on his breathing, trying not to panic. The Burglar will surely not recognize him, not with his scars and the lack of beard. But what is that blasted hobbit doing in Bree anyway? Did he not complain during their quest how he disliked the town, how he avoided the Men's settlements if he could help it?

Curse his Mahal forsaken luck.

„Ah, here you are!”

Dwalin does not turn around to face the Burglar. Even if he looks more like a Man now rather than a Dwarf it would be wiser not to tempt fate – the hobbit has always been too clever for his own good.

„Frodo Baggins, what did I tell you about wandering off on your own?”

The lad mumbles something that sounds like „'m not alone” and the halfling berates him again: „Samwise is not an adult, Frodo, shame on you for dragging your friend away and getting him into trouble”. But soon his attention turns onto Dwalin who still refuses to face the halflings.

„I am so sorry, sir, I hope the boys weren't troubling you. Too curious for their own good, these two.”

Dwalin only grunts in answer, trying to be as dismissive as possible without saying a word, but the Burglar keeps _talking._

„You know, Master Sagwyn, the old smith that is, he used to fix my gardening tools and a fine job he did too-”

He babbles on about _rakes_ and bloody _spades_ , and Dwalin would really rather prefer the Halfling to just _leave._ So he rises the hammer high above his head and swings it harder than neccessary, the loud clang of metal hitting metal interrupting the hobbit mid-word. Heavy silence settles in the workshop and Dwalin freezes, feeling the Burglar's eyes focus on him intently. A sharp intake of breath tells him all he needs to know and the blacksmith closes his eyes, waiting.

„D-Dwalin?”

He lets the hammer slip from his slack grip and land on the floor near his heavy boot, and wipes his sweaty brow again before turning to face the hobbit. Bilbo Baggins looks exactly the same as he did when they had seen each other in Erebor some years ago. True, there are more wrinkles on his face, especially around his eyes, and a few lines around his mouth, whether from grief or laughter Dwalin cannot tell. But his hair is still curly, thick and healthy as it used to be. His eyes are still as green as he remembers, vibrant and bright.

„Burglar,” he greets him gruffly, crossing his arms in front of him. Bilbo Baggins stares at him as if he were an apparition of some sort and Dwalin scowls. A smile blooms on the hobbit's face then, joyous and so _honest_ the dwarf doesn't quite know what to do. The halfling moves, stepping around the counter quickly and then there are _arms_ around his _waist_ as Bilbo embraces him. He freezes, eyes widening. Bilbo's arms are tight around him, his face smashed against Dwalin's shoulder, and a feeling of blissful comfort washes over the dwarf. He automatically reaches out to return the embrace. Thori... his _King's_ face flashes before his eyes then, bloodied and still in death. He breathes out harshly, shaking his head at the sudden pain in his chest. No, _no_ , he does not deserve comfort, not after... after...

His fingers curl around the Halfling's biceps and he pushes him away gently. There are tears in the Burglar's eyes but he's smiling, wide and happy.

„My dear friend, I'm so glad to see you! Whatever are you doing here, in Bree of all places?”

Dwalin takes a step back, looking over the Burglar. He looks well – his waistcoat is clean, buttons polished to high shine, a handkerchief peeking from his pocket. What little softness he had lost during the quest is back around his middle, a clear indicator of indulgement in good food and sweets. His cheeks are rosy, skin glowing healthily. But there is something about him that is not quite right. He is genuinely happy to see the dwarf, but his eyes are bright with joy and pained at the same time.

„Workin',” Dwalin answers, nodding at the hammer lying at his feet. Bilbo rolls his eyes, his smile widening.

„Yes, I see that. But why are you not in Erebor? How is the mountain? And the rest of our Company? You must tell me eveything.”

Dwalin shakes his head and finally the halfling notices the lack of beard and the scars. His eyes are wide like saucers and he reaches out, his small fingers almost brushing against the thickest scar that runs down his cheek. Dwalin jerks away, taking a step back. His eyes flicker to the lads still standing at the door watching them with their mouths hanging open. Bilbo startles as he moves away, but turns when he notices the dwarf is looking at the boys.

„Ah, yes!”, he cries, mentioning for the lads to come closer. They approach, cautious but curious, and Bilbo clasps his hands on their shoulders. They reach no further than Dwalin's mid-tight and the sudden realization that he could probably crush their little skulls in his hands with no effort fills him with dread. „This is Frodo, my nephew, and Samwise Gamgee, our gardener's boy. Lads, say hello to Mister Dwalin.”

They look up at him with their mouths hanging open. Frodo is the first to move, reaching out with his tiny hand for a shake.

„I'm Frodo Baggins,” he says politely, „at your service.” He bows, his black curls bouncing with the movement around his pointy ears. The other boy hides behind an amused Bilbo, red as a tomato. Dwalin hesitates, but grasps the delicate hand in his scarred and rough one gently, giving it a few slow pumps. The lad beams.

„Dwalin, at yours,” he murmurs, inclining his head in the tiniest of bows.

„Are you one of the dwarves from Uncle's stories? You are, aren't you, Mister Dwalin? Uncle said you have lots and _lots_ of tattoos, and two _axes,_ and that you _killed_ all those orcs and goblins, and then King Thorin-”

Dwalin shudders at the mention of his King's name, closing his eyes and breathing out harshly through his nose. The lad continues to babble, his tiny hands moving restlessly as he reenacts some of the scenes from his Uncle's stories, jumping about and fighting with his imaginary foes, and Dwalin looks at him, unseeing.

_His King in armour, swinging Orcrist and slashing their enemies' ranks like through warm butter, all grace and deadly force, his face twisted in rage..._

_His King surrounded by the orcs, fighting his way over to his nephews, bellowing their names as he goes..._

_His King's mournful scream when he sees Kili lying so still on the ground, Fili next to him..._

_His King pierced by orcish spears and arrows, falling to his knees right in front of Dwalin's eyes..._

_His King dead before his time, pale and bloody, never to see the glory of Erebor restored.._.

It is his fault, all of it, and Dwalin staggers under the weight of grief pushing on his shoulder. He feels himself collapse onto a nearby chair, hears Bilbo's concerned babbling, but he cannot see the Burglar, the memory of his King dying right before his eyes.

His hands clench into fists so tight he can feel blood well under his nails. King-slayer they had called him and they were right – it might not have been his blade that struck the King, but it was his duty to protect him, to be there and watch his back ever since the King was a lad. He had failed and now his King, his friend, his _kin_ lays in cold stone because of him.

There are fingers on his clenched fists and he blinks, looks down. Bilbo is kneeling in front of him, his face marred by a worried frown. His hand is warm on Dwalin's, soft and delicate.

„Dwalin,” he mutters, his fingers stroking the dwarf's knuckles comfortingly. Dwalin shakes him off and stands.

„You should leave,” he says gruffly, not caring he sounds rude. He looks over at the lads, but they're nowhere to be seen. „Now.”

The Burglar opens his mouth to argue and Dwalin glares in warning. The Halfling's mouth shut with a click of teeth against teeth and he narrows his eyes.

„You, Master Dwarf, owe me explanation,” he snaps, stretching up to his full, rather unimpressive height.

Dwalin can feel his face flush in anger when he growls: „I owe you nothing, Halfling.”

Bilbo doesn't seem frightened. Indeed, he puts his hands on his hips, his face thunderous.

„Oh, yes you do! You come to Bree without sending word first, even though you _know_ I would be delighted to see any of my dear companions again, you work here and away from Erebor, you have no _beard,”_ Dwalin flinches at that and Bilbo's face softens, ”and you just scared the living daylights out of me.”

Silence falls between them, thick and uncomfortable. Bilbo is still staring at him, his eyes wandering from his scarred face to his bald head. „Please,” he says. „Please, let me visit again without the lads and we'll talk.”

Dwalin sighs, resigned, and nods shortly. Bilbo pats his forearm, turns away to go.

„You know,” he says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips,”Frodo seems quite taken with you. It will be a challenge to keep him away, now that he knows who you are.”

„The Men-” Dwalin begins but the Burglar shakes his head with a chuckle.

„Don't worry, he'll tell no one. Neither will I.”

Dwalin nods in thanks, and then the Halfling is gone. Dwalin stares after him for a while, deep in thought. He shakes his head, stands and picks up the hammer. He has work to do, after all.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ishkhaqwi ai durugnul (Khuzdul) - used by Gimli in Fellowship of the Ring, which apparently means something along the lines of "I spit on your grave". Harsh words, Dwalin. Harsh words indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta-ed, sorry for typos and any other mistakes.

Bilbo Baggins does not come back for another forthnight. Dwalin thanks Mahal for small mercies.

He doesn't look forward to their „talk”, as the Burglar has called it, and the hope that maybe the hobbit has forgotten about him blooms in his chest as another day passes without the halfling's high voice ringing throughout the smithy.

Hope is a mother of fools.

Dwalin is in the middle of dinner, gobbling down his food as quickly as he can while leaning against the counter. There is no time to sit and eat properly - he has a lot of work to do and already falling behind in his orders: the arrowheads commisioned by a Ranger, who introduced himself as Arathorn, take up most of his time, the small iron tips tricky to shape and sharpen. He is a good smith, even _very_ good when mood strikes him, but arrows were always his least favourite weapons to make. He deals far more better with battle-axes and swords, the metal long and broad, not falling throught his thick fingers when his attention slips for a second.

It's not safe, such distractions, especially not in the forge where the tiniest accident could be disastrous, but Dwalin's control has been slipping ever since the acursed hobbit appeared in his workshop – he catches himself staring blankly at the walls sometimes, not even thinking about anything at all, his hammer clenched in his fist and hot iron waiting on the anvil to be struck. Memories of the quest are haunting his dreams; not the running and the fighting, but the quiet moments when the Company had stopped to make camp in the middle of nowhere: Bombur fussing over his pots and pans, Bofur and Nori heatedly whispering about something or other, Bifur and Gloin sharpening their weapons in silence; Balin and Oin chatting to Gandalf, all of them puffing on their pipes, white smoke like halos around their heads; Dori mothering Ori, the lads... the lads sparing, or pranking the unsuspecting hobbit.

He himself sitting by his King's side, sometimes chatting and laughing in low voices, sometimes silent, both deep in their own thoughts.

He wakes drenched in cold sweat during those nights, shaking like a leaf in the wind, and is unable to go back to sleep afterwards. So he goes down to the smithy and lights the fire in the forge long before the dawn breaks the darkness of the night. He doesn't start working before the sun hits the windows, bathing the workshop in gentle warmth – instead, he sits on his stool with his head in his hands and tries to weep. Each time, his eyes remain dry.

It's the blasted halfling's fault, all of it.

Bilbo appears as Dwalin swallows the last bite of his dinner, helping it to get down quicker with a long gulp of weak ale. He doesn't see the hobbit at first, bending instead to retrieve his hammer, muttering darkly about bloody Rangers with their bloody arrowheads, by Mahal's great forges, he should have refused when he had the chance and now he has to watch his every damn step in case one or two sharp tips has fallen to the stone floor unnoticed.

The hobbit clears his throat and Dwalin almost jumps, startled.

_Startled!_

That's how shaken his control is. All because of the damn halfling and his habit of sticking his big nose where it doesn't belong.

„Dwalin.”

He closes his eyes for a second, breathing deeply.

„I'm busy,” he says without turning around to look at the hobbit. He picks up his hammer, rolls his shoulder a little and lifts his arm high above his head, muscles straining. Strikes. Fire dances over the red-hot steel.

„Dwalin,” the halfling tries again, and he's closer now, the sound of his steps like a drum in the dwarf's ears. „Dwalin, please.”

„Not now,” he insists, striking the blade again. The loud clang of metal hitting metal reverbarates through his bones. “Busy.”

“For Yavanna's sake, look at me!”

Dwalin pauses mid-strike. “Leave, Burglar” he says quietly. “There's nothing to talk about.”

“Dwalin, please, just... _please_.”

He lowers his hammer, putting it carefuly on the anvil next to the red-hot blade, and takes off his thick gloves. He turns around then and his eyes focus on the hobbit standing by the counter with such hopeful expression on his little face Dwalin feels the urge to smash something.

They stare at each other for a long while, Bilbo's eyes roaming Dwalin's beardless chin and bald head with intensity that makes the dwarf almost fidget. He remains very, very still.

“Hello,” Bilbo says softly, taking a careful step forward. Dwalin crosses his arms in front of him, the thin cotton shirt stretching over his biceps, and suddenly realizes how defensive he must look.

He grunts in response to the hobbit's timid greeting, staring down at his honey-brown curls. They bounce with every small movement, much like his nephew's. Bilbo watches him expectantly and the dwarf sighs, gesturing to his stool. The Burglar beams, sitting down quickly on the offered seat. He groans with relief.

“Oh, my poor feet. I've walked almost half of the way from Brandy Hall, can you believe that? My cousin's husband, Saradoc, agreed to take me by cart but one of the wheels got damaged half-way through, about ten leagues from Bree, and-” Bilbo clears his throat awkwardly, cheeks flushed pink. “I'm babbling, aren't I?

Dwalin stares at him in silence. The hobbit sighs. “Will you say something?”

“No.”

Bilbo scowls. “I swear to Yavanna, it's like pulling warg's teeth.” He pats the chair next to him, a wooden, rickety thing Dwalin avoids sitting on in case it broke under his weight. “Come, sit with me.”

The smith grimaces, but moves closer and takes the offered seat gingerly. The wood creaks under him and he doesn't dare breathe for a long moment. It holds. He breathes out loudly. Bilbo chuckles, the sound warm like chiming of bells. He leans forward a little on his stool, peering at Dwalin's face with curiosity.

“How did that happen, then?” he asks, gesturing to Dwalin's chin. His tattooed hand rises on its own volition to touch the scarred flesh, but jerks back when it meets hairless skin. He shudders.

“I was exiled,” he says shortly, looking anywhere but at the hobbit. He hears the Burglar's sharp intake of breath and smirks without humour.

“What? _Why_?”

Dwalin's hands curl into loose fists at the question and he closes his eyes for a moment to compose himself. When he opens them again, he's almost calm.

“I refused to bow to Dain.”

He glances at Bilbo. The hobbit is staring at him, his face pale, green eyes wide as saucers. He gives a long-suffering sigh, resting his forehead on his palm. “You fool,” he whispers, and Dwalin growls in warning, suddenly tense. Bilbo lifts his head to look at the dwarf, his eyes flashing with anger.

“What were you thinking?” he hisses.

Dwalin's face twists in a snarl. “How dare you-”

“Oh, I dare fine!” the hobbit yells, jumping to his feet. His small body shakes with rage. “How dare _you_ squander our efforts to return you, _all of you_ , to your home just because your stupid _pride_ wouldn't let you bow to Dain-”

“My pride?!” Dwalin roars, getting up as if bured. He towers over the Burglar, seething with fury. “My pride has nothing to do with this, halfling!”

“Then what!” Bilbo cries, “what was it that made you all but _spit_ into Dain's face?!”

“I refuse to pledge loyalty to another King, least of all to that son of a whore!”

Silence falls between them, thick and suffocating. Bilbo gapes at him with his mouth open and Dwalin feels his anger deflate. He sits back in his chair, eyes never leaving the hobbit.

The Burglar seems to be rendered speechless. He stands in front of Dwalin, stupefied. He moves then, slowly reaching out to the dwarf's chin. Dwalin grimaces, but lets him touch the ragged scars. Bilbo's fingers are soft and warm against his skin. He moves back after a moment and the hobbit's hand falls away.

“Oh, Dwalin,” he says then in a pained murmur. “He wouldn't have wanted that.”

Dwalin knows exactly whom Bilbo is talking about and his teeth clench as a fresh wave of grief washes over him. His shoulder slump ever so slightly. He bows his head.

“He's dead,” he says numbly. A misplaced arrowhead winks at him from the floor and he bends to pick it up, “you don't know what he would have wanted.”

Warm arms wrap around his neck then, holding him still as Bilbo embraces him, curls tickling Dwalin's nose. The dwarf doesn't return the embrace, his arms hanging limply by his sides.

“You fool,” the hobbit says again, this time warmly, and squeezes him tighter. Dwalin thinks of his brother, chest constricting, and pushes Bilbo away with gentleness that surprises even him.

“Leave it, halfling,” he says. “What's done is done.”

Bilbo shakes his head in exasperation. “You dwarves,” he mutters, but it doesn't sound like an insult and Dwalin chuckles quietly. The hobbit sends him a thin smile.

“Why Bree?” he asks, looking around the smithy with curiosity. His eyes land on the arrowhead still pressed between Dwalin's fingers. He opens his hand, palm up, and the dwarf puts the sharp iron tip onto it, careful not to nick the soft skin by accident.

“None of the kingdoms would have me,” he answers, his eyes locked on the arrowhead in Bilbo's hand. “Dain took my beard and hair, marking me as a traitor.”

“But why Bree, of all places?” Bilbo looks confused, his small face scrunched in distaste. Dwalin bites back a smile.

“I was on my way back from Ered Luin and Bree needed a good smith.” He shrugs. “It makes no difference where I stay.”

Bilbo huffs, putting his hands on his hips. He looks like an annoyed rabbit and about as ferocious.

“You should have come to Hobbiton. We need a smith, too.”

“ Me, living among the halflings?” he snorts. “Not a chance.”

Bilbo looks offended at that but Dwalin doesn't apologise. They sit in awakward silence for a long while, both unsure what to say. In the end it's Bilbo who speaks first, his voice pleading.

“Come back to the Shire with me,” he says, his green eyes wide and imploring. “You could stay with me and Frodo in Bag End. There's an old smithy by the mill, I'm sure you'd have enough work to keep you busy.”

Dwalin snorts again, amused. “And fix pans and pots for fussy housewives? No, Master Burglar, I think not.”

Bilbo's shoulders slump and guilt nudges at Dwalin like a particularly annoying pin jabbing him in the ribs. “Perhaps,” he says before he can change his mind, “I could visit, once in a while.”

The hobbit's face brightens at that, smile stretching his lips and making his full cheeks dimple. Dwalin looks away, uncomfortable.

“That would do nicely,” Bilbo answers, reaching out to pat Dwalin's massive forearm. “Very nicely, indeed.”

After Bilbo leaves, Dwalin sits in the workshop until fire dies in the forge, staring at the red embers as they turn cold. Only then does he stand, trudging heavily up the stairs to his room, and collapses onto his bed.

He doesn't sleep a wink that night.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Weeks pass before he finds himself trudging along the Great East Road towards the Shire.

He has turned to walk back to Bree about half a dozen times already, wondering what in Mahal's name he thought he was doing, but eventually he would stop, sigh, and turn around to march towards the Shire again, growling and grimacing as he went. He might or might not have scared the living daylights out of a hobbit farmer with the ferocity of his scowl.

Hobbiton looks exactly as he remembered it – sleepy little village in the middle of nowhere with particularly gossipy inhabitants, who seem to have nothing better to do than sit all day outside their holes and stare at the passing strangers.

Not that strangers are seen often in these parts.

Dwalin tries to ignore the whispered comments as he passes the smials. The hobbits mutter how unusual it was for a Man to come to these parts of the Shire, even such a short one, and Dwalin fights the urge to throttle the annoying little buggers and show them exactly what he thinks of such impertinence.

He ends up walking with Keeper grasped in his hand. No-one says a word after that.

Bag End sits at the foot of the biggest hill in Hobbiton, its green door bright with a fresh coat of paint and the golden knob shining in the afteroon sun. Dwalin stops in front of it, suddenly hesitant. Before he can flee, he lifts his hand and pounds on the door three times. Nothing.

He leans closer to the door, listening for any sound of movement. A patter of tiny feet can be heard in the smial, and then the door open and Dwalin looks down. And down.

“Mister Dwalin!”

Frodo Baggins grins with all the joy of a seven year old child, showing off gaps in his pearly white teeth. A tiny hand grabs Dwalin's rough and scarred one and, before the dwarf can even think about uttering a protest, he's being yanked forward and into the smial. The door shut behind them with a quiet click.

“Come see my drawings!” Frodo says, pulling the unresisting warrior towards the sitting room.

Dwalin goes obediently, too stunned to speak. Frodo's fingers are not even long enough to wrap around more than two of his thick ones and he swallows, suddenly terrified of incidentally hurting the little tyke. The hobbit child doesn't seem to realize the danger he has invited into his home, chattering about his friends and cousins as he leads the dwarf further into the smial.

Dwalin's heavy boots trail mud all over Bilbo's clean floors. The smith shrugs, a wry smirk tugging at his lips. The Burglar has invited him, after all. He can bear the consequences now.

Little Frodo tugs him down and he lowers himself with a grunt to sit on one of the plush rugs in front of the fireplace. He remembers his King's erect figure standing here all those years ago, proud and tall, white smoke around his dark head like a halo, his voice deep as he sung longingly of home long lost.

A shudder makes its way up his spine, cold and unpleasant, and he feels his shoulders slump slightly. A picture appears in front of his eyes then, and he leans back a bit to look at it properly. It shows four hobbit children, judging by the furry feet and curly hair, two of them fighing.

“... and then Sam kicked Merry and he ran away crying,” Frodo chirps, finishing his tale, and frowns.“I don't like it when my friends cry, but sometimes Merry deserves it.”

Dwalin nods, numbly taking the offered picture. Frodo immediately jumps to show him another of his works. He is no artist, no child is, but there is a simple beauty to his pictures, as wobbly and unrealistic as they are.

Frodo plops down onto his lap and Dwalin grunts, surprised. The lad is warm against his chest, his curly hair barely tickling the dwarf's bare chin. His hands hover uselessly above the boy's thin shoulders, wether to push him away or pull him closer he's not sure. The hobbitling wiggles a bit to get himself more comfortable and the dwarf sighs, rearanging the lad on his lap so that they both could see the drawings properly.

“And this is Uncle Bilbo fighting the Trolls...”

Dwalin snorts. He doesn't remember _the_ _Burglar_ doing any fighting when the trolls got a hold of their ponies – what he does remember is the halfling being snatched up by two of them, his eyes wide and terrified as they threatened to rip his arms of. But in the end, he did help out with his quick thinking, though Dwalin still can't quite forgive the “cooking dwarf” advice. Skinned first...

“... and this is you.”

It is, indeed, him: a burly figure with a ferocious scowl on his face, battle axes in both hands, among a sea of twisted creatures that apparently are supposed to be orcs. And, quite unmistakably, he has a beard. “I drew it when Uncle told me about the battle!”

Dwalin swallows, tracing the curly hair on his drawn-self's chin. He knows there is no way to grow his own back – the scars on his chin prevent the hair to sprout, and whatever patches of skin remained unblemished he shaves every morning with a heavy heart. He would rather look like a short Man than a rugged, unkept dwarf clinging desperately to identity he has lost the right to along with the death of his King. The cold dagger of grief twists in his heart, plunging in deeper.

Tiny fingers touch one of the thicker scars running down his cheek and he turns to glance at Frodo. The lads brow is furrowed in thought, a displeased look on his little face. “Did it hurt?”

Dwalin gazes at him for a while, allowing the exploration of his chin and the back of his head where the scars are even more pronounced.

“Aye,” he rasps, “it did.”

Frodo's button nose scrunches and his frown deepens. “Does is still hurt?”

He looks so distressed, so worried that Dwalin feels his lips stretch into a small smile. Small, but not entirely fake.

“Not anymore.”

Frodo nods then, satisfied. He shows the dwarf another picture, but his little hand lingers on Dwalin's cheek, as if making sure he isn't in pain. Dwalin grunts vaguely whenever needed as Frodo explains his drawings to him, but his attention is slipping into something much darker, something he would rather not dwell upon, at least not around the lad. He is too sweet, to innocent to be subjected to Dwalin's dark thoughts and moods. It would be better for him to leave, before he does or says something he would regret later...

He opens his mouth to excuse himself but the sound of the door opening interrupts him, together with a muffled curse.

“Frodo? Oh, _blast it_... Frodo, m'lad, are you here? Give your old Uncle a hand, would you?”

“Yes, sir!” the lad yells, jumping from his perch on Dwalin's lap, and runs towards Bilbo's voice. The dwarf groans – it's too late to escape now, as Bilbo would never forgive him popping in for less than an hour after weeks of silence. Not that he cares, of course. But the hobbit seemed genuinely excited with the idea of hosting his old companion back at his smithy, and Dwalin knows his consciense wouldn't leave him be if he left now.

A muffled yell comes from the hallway then and Dwalin jumps to his feet, heart pounding. He barges out of the sitting room, Grasper and Keeper in his hands, blood pumping his his veins at the prospect of danger, only to see Bilbo Baggins staring at his newly polished floors with a look of utter despair. Mud and dust from Dwalin's boots coat the wooden surface like a thin blanket and Bilbo groans, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, still unaware of the dwarf who has stopped in the doorway and is watching him with a faint smirk.

“Oh, bebother and confound it, _Frodo Baggins!_ Come here right this instant, young hobbit, or I so help me-”

“The lad did nothing wrong, Burglar.”

Bilbo gasps, taking a step back in fright, and he would have fallen right onto his rump has Dwalin not snatched his arm in the last moment. Bilbo is breathing harshly, eyes blown wide, mouth open in shock. He recovers quickly, however, brushing Dwalin's hand away with his face twisted in a half-hearted scowl, green eyes twinkling merrily.

“Trailing mud all over my clean floors like all those years ago, eh, Master Dwarf? A hobbit would think you have learned _some_ manners, at least!”

Dwalin shrugs, hand falling to his side limply. He crosses his arms on his chest, leveling the halfling with a small glare. Bilbo grins. “Take off your shoes and come through to the kitchen. You must be hungry after the journey. Frodo!” he calls, “what did I tell you about receiving visitors properly? I should box your ears and wash them with a wire-brush for all the things you obviously choose not to hear.”

A distinct groan and a muffled “sorry, Uncle!” comes from the kitchen and Bilbo chuckles, turning towards Dwalin again. His mouth stretch into a warm smile.

“I'm glad you've come,” he says in soft voice, reaching out to grasp Dwalin's forearm gently. He squeezes, eyes twinkling with mischief, and goes to the kitchen, playfully threatening Frodo with more ear-washing. The lad's answering giggles make Dwalin realize he has been standing like a fool in the foyer, gaping stupidly at the place where Bilbo was standing just a moment ago.

He had not expected such a warm welcome – yes, Bilbo has invited him, but Dwalin had stalled his visit to the Shire for weeks. He thought the hobbit would be cross with him for it, and for barging in without sending word first. But truth be told, Dwalin did not actually think he would make it – he had changed his mind more times that he cares to remember, after all.

He takes off his heavy boots, letting them fall to the floor near the door, and hangs his traveling cloak on one of the iron hooks. After a long consideration, he leaves Grasper and Keeper leaning against the wall – it wouldn't do to come into his host's kitchen armed with wickedly sharp, lethal battle axes after all, no matter how many times Frodo's curious stares strayed towards them as he explained his pictures. The lad thought he wouldn't notice, but there were very few things Dwalin fails to see.

He enters the kitchen just in time to catch the lad sneak behind his Uncle's back and snatch a cookie from the jar, stuffing the treat into his mouth and chewing as quietly as he can. Dwalin knows Bilbo can hear the crunching sounds, the tips of his pointy ears visible through his hair twitching slightly, but the hobbit ignores it, focusing instead on choping carrots.

“Sit down, dear fellow, sit down! Lunch will be ready in just a moment.” He turns, looking at Dwalin from the corner of his eye. He frowns a little. “You should have sent word, you know, so I would be better prepared for guests. Why, I ought to give you nothing to eat at all, that should teach you...”

He babbles on and Dwalin lets the idle chatter wash over him. He sits at the table, knees bumping the underside of the wooden top. The smial is somewhat smaller than he remembered and he wonders briefly how in Mahal's name had they managed to fit thirteen dwarves and a wizard into it.

Not many things seem to have changed in the hobbit's hole – the kitchen (and in fact, the sitting room, the only two rooms Dwalin has had the chance to see) is still the same: the same table and chairs, the same firestove, the same jars filled with fresh herbs, the same enciting smells. But there are pictures stuck to the drawers now, child's scribbles of two hobbits walking together, holding hands, big smiles on their faces. There is even a picture of a dragon, red and breathing fire among the mountains of gold, and Dwalin looks away hastily.

He is glad there is no picture of his King hanging anywhere in sight.

A cookie slides towards him slowly and he looks at Frodo from the corner of his eye. The lad is sitting next to him, little hairy feet kicking the air, his eyes fixed on the other hobbit's back. He nudges the cookie closer and Dwalin takes it after a moment of hesitation. He bites into it, eyes widening as the flavour spreads over his tongue, sweet but not overly so with a hint of cinnamon. He mentions to the boy for another, watching Bilbo intently, ready to withdraw his waiting hand should the hobbit turn unexpectedly.

“If you eat any more cookies now you'll have no room for lunch, and then where will we be?”

Dwalin feels a flush stealing over his cheeks and the top of his bald head, but fortunatelly Bilbo does not turn around to look at them. “Very good this,” he says gruffly after a moment of silence, taking the cookie from the offered jar despite Bilbo's clear disapproval.

The hobbit chuckles. “You're welcome to them after lunch.” He sweeps in then, swift as an arrow, and snatches the jar away from Frodo's fingers. The lad whines at the loss, pouting, but the Burglar pays him no heed.

“Frodo,” he says, turning back to attend to his carrots, “why won't you run to the Gamgees and invite Sam over for lunch. Yavanna knows that poor Bell must be up to her ears in work, with six children no less.”

Frodo springs to his feet with a cheerful shout, running out with a short “yes, Uncle!”. The front door close behind him with a thump. Silence settles over the Bag End's kitchen. Dwalin stares at his hands resting on the table, not quite sure whether he should say something, and if so, what should he talk about? Mahal's great forges, Balin always used to be better than him at such niceties – the warrior has no sociable bone in his war-hardened body and _small talk_ is all but alien to him. But Bilbo appartenly doesn't expect him to speak at all: he continues to putter around his kitchen humming softly, and the dwarf catches himself watching the hobbit as he works. It is soothing, mind-numbing even, and Dwalin feels the tension leave his body bit by bit, until he's all but sprawled on his chair. He thinks of nothing at all, his eyes glued to the Burglar stirring whatever cocotion he's preparing.

He must have dozed off for a bit because the next thing he knows there is a bowl of hot stew in front of him and a hobbit hovering near his elbow, looking at him expectantly. Dwalin frowns, lifting a questioning eyebrow. Bilbo sighs in forced exasperation and nods at the food, “Tell me what you think.”

The dwarf takes the spoon (it's way too small in his thick fingers) and dips it into the thick mash of vegetables and meat. He frowns at the carrots (he has no fondness for “healthy” food) but tries it under Bilbo's watchful gaze. A plethora of flavours bursts in his mouth and he all but moans around the spoon. The Burglar beams at him, clearly pleased with his reaction, and leaves him to his bowl, moving to the sink to wash the dishes. The boys are still to come, though Dwalin thinks he can hear Frodo's clear laughter outside.

“You should have sent word,” Bilbo says then with his back towards the dwarf. His voice is light, but there is an edge to it that the dwarf instantly recognizes as one of many tones his brother used to keep him in line as a dwarfling – disapproval. He straightens, tensing up again, stew forgotten.

“Apologies,” he says, wincing at the unpleasant tone of his voice. “Wasn't sure whether I would make it.”

Bilbo nods and turns slightly to look at him. There is a small smile lurking at the corners of his lips and Dwalin relaxes again.

“It's quite alright. Only I have nothing prepared, I'm afraid. The guest bedrooms need to be aired and new linen-”

“I can sleep on the floor,” Dwalin interrupts, “or at the inn. I will not overstay my welcome.”

Bilbo frowns then, turning around fully to face him, hands propped on his hips.

“Now, stop right there,” he says loudly, face flushing an angry pink. Dwalin watches, somewhat fascinated, as it spreads along his cheeks and all the way up to the tips of his ears. Green eyes flash warningly. “Noone will be sleeping at the inn or on the floor, not when I'm the Master of this house. Preparing the room will only take a moment, but I was going to ask you to keep an eye on the lads while I do it. I trust Frodo not to do anything foolish, but Sam, as polite and shy as he is, seems to wake a mischevious streak in my nephew that I'd rather not test.” He pauses, the angry flush receeding, and gazes at Dwalin in silence for a while. When he speaks again, his voice is so soft Dwalin has to strain his ears to hear him: “And you're always welcome here, at Bag End, for however long you wish. You're my friend, after all.”

He turns back to the sink before the dwarf has a chance to say anything to that. He never considered himself Bilbo's friend – they were never close, the hobbit quite clearly intimidated by the burly dwarf during their quest, seeking the company of Bofur or the lads instead. He became close with the King as their journey progressed, but he never approached Dwalin or exchanged more than a few words at a time. But the Burglar has obviously grown to like him, calling him a _friend_ , of all things, and Dwalin isn't sure how to feel about that.

Yes, Bilbo has invited him to Bag End, and yes, he seems to trust him with his nephew, but is Bilbo still not scared of him? True, he has no beard anymore and...

Oh.

It's pity. The hobbit pities him for being an exile, for being marked as a traitor, for having his beard and hair chopped off because he was too much of a damn fool. Did Bilbo not call him the very word back at his workshop before he started screaming at him? _A fool._

A fool that had killed his King and heirs to the throne.

By all rights, the halfling should loath him for bringing death upon his friends. He pities him instead, and Dwalin thinks he would prefer hate to this fake friendship. Anger rises then, overcoming grief. He stands up, sending his chair crashing to the floor and Bilbo whips around to look at him with concern.

“I have no need for your pity, halfling,” he growls, clenching his hands into fists so tight his knluckles turn white. Bilbo looks uncertain at that, almost scared. Dwalin cannot blame him – he may be lacking a beard, but his body is still hardened by years of sword and axe training, muscles of his arms bulging under his shirt thanks to the time spent in the forge with a hammer and an anvil.

“What?” Bilbo says then, frowning. He's clunching a dishcloth in front of his chest like a shield. There is confusion and hurt on his little face, but Dwalin is too furious to notice. He takes a threatening step forward, his mouth twisted in a terrifying grimace.

“ _What_?” he parrots in an exaggeratedly high voice, and Bilbo finally seems to find his own backbone. He straightens, slapping the dishcloth on the sink, and crosses him arms in front of him.

“Pity? You think I _pity_ you?” he barks, marching up to Dwalin with no hesitation, completely ignoring the fact that the dwarf could easily snap him in twain. “Well, you're wrong!”

“Is it becaue I have no beard?!” Dwalin roars, voice breaking at the last word, grabbing Bilbo's arms and shaking him - not hard enough to hurt him, not at all, but enough to frighten him into telling the truth. “Is it because I'm an exile?! Answer me, halfling, or Mahal help me, I'll-”

“You'll what?!” the Burglar yells, trying to pull away from his grip, his face white as a sheet. “You'll dangle me by the throat over an abyss, just like Thorin did for a piece of stupid stone?”

Dwalin flinches, guilt and sorrow stabbing at his heart at the mention of his King's name, and his anger subsides. The hand around Bilbo's arm loosens and the hobbit jerks back, massaging the skin. His face twists in pain. Dwalin feels sick.

He takes a step back and almost stumbles into the table, but Bilbo's small hand steadies him. The hobbit is not looking at him as he leads his guest to the chair, but his face is still sickly pale. Dwalin opens his mouth to say something, apologise even, but Bilbo pushes him gently onto the seat and stands in front of him, curly head bowed.

“Forgive me,” he says, clasping Dwalin's rough hands with his soft ones. “That was a low blow. I didn't mean to say it.”

The dwarf stares at him in shock. Bilbo apologised to him. To _him_. He is the one who should say sorry: he accused the hobbit - the kind, friendly hobbit – who has invited him into his house, who wanted to simply see one of his old companions, of lying. He attacked him in his own home, hurt him... oh, Balin would have a field day with him should he know.

Shame claws at his chest and he sighs, bowing his head. He mumbles his apologies in Khuzdul and Bilbo chuckles, tapping his bare chin to make his look up. The smith obeys reluctantly, his eye meeting the hobbit's green, warm gaze.

“Westron, if you don't mind. The only words I know in Khuzdul are rather rude, courtesy of Bofur.”

Dwalin swallows, Bilbo still holding his gaze firmly. His eyes are soft, not angry at all, and the dwarf feels like punching something, preferably his own thick head. He has suspected pity where there was only kindness and genuine affection... Balin has always said he's an awful judge of character. He also used to say Dwalin's suspicion towards other races will eventually be his downfall.

He should have listened to his older brother.

“Sorry,” he mumbles and the Burglar's hands tighten around his fingers reassuringly. “Did I...?” he gestures vaguely towards Bilbo's shoulders. The hobbit chuckles, rubbing his arm through the material of his shirt.

“No damage done,” he says, voice light and warm. Dwalin grunts, but his eyes are glued to the halfling's collarbones – he remembers digging his fingers into the skin there, a bit too hard. There must be a bruise forming under the soft cotton of Bilbo's shirt. “Finish your stew. The lads will be along shortly, and trust me, you will not be able to eat then.”

“But-” Dwalin starts, frowns. He has attacked the hobbit and he still lets him stay in his house? Is he insane?!

Bilbo only shakes his head with a laugh, curls bouncing around his pointy ears. His cheeks are pink again, not sickly pale, and Dwalin breathes out with relief. “Don't even think about leaving. It was a misunderstanding, that's all.”

The smith gapes at him as the halfling leaves the kitchen humming a merry tune. He doesn't understand. Bilbo wants him to stay? After all this? He frowns in puzzlement, not sure what to do. Should he leave now, Bilbo would be no doubt offended. But if he is to stay, he needs to apologize properly – a simple sorry would not do. He would cut off one of his braids has he still had them, to show the sincierity of his words, but... well, for obvious reasons he cannot do that. But maybe...

A plan starts to form in his head then, and he looks around for a piece of paper and a pencil, but two hobbit children burst into the kitchen. Frodo stops in front of him, tugging another boy by the hand. Sam reddens as soon as his eyes meet Dwalin's.

“Sam, you know Mister Dwalin,” Frodo says, frowning. He nudges the other with his elbow and Sam jumps and stutters out a greeting. Dwalin grunts in answer. Frodo beams.

“He doesn't say much,” he says to his friend, “but he's nice! And has two axes, I've seen them!”

Sam's eyes widen almost comically and he turns to look at the dwarf inquiringly. Dwalin feels a small smile tug at his lips, but he frowns instead and nods.

“Aye,” he says gruffly, “and yer not to touch them, ye hear?”

A chorus of “yes sir” answer him and he nods again, satisfied.

“Food,” he says, pointing at the two steaming bowls of stew standing on the table. The lads shout with delight, both chattering between each spoonful of their meal – even Sam starts to open up, despite his initial shyness, and by the time the boys are finished he's talking as much as Frodo, if not more. Bilbo was right – Dwalin hardly has time to eat his own food as the lads bombard him with all sorts of questions. Frodo doesn't mention the King again, though, and Dwalin wonders whether Bilbo has warned him not to do so. He's grateful for it anyway. It would not do to frighten the lads with his reaction to his own memories.

After lunch, Frodo insists on going outside, but Dwalin only lifts his eyebrow in answer – Bilbo did not say anything about going out of the smial and while the dwarf has utter confidence in his ability to tame the two little hobbits, he would rather not antagonize his host again.

“We're staying,” he says firmly, and the lads deflate a little, staring at him with their huge, pleading eyes. His eyebrow only rises higher in answer – it's clear the look doesn't work on him and Frodo grumbles in displeasure.

He quickly forgets about it when Sam suggests a game of something or other – a hobbitish game, as Dwalin is completely unfamiliar with the rules and, in fact, the very point of it; it seems the game is all about running around with closed eyes and yelling when the lads bump into each other, shrill laughter echoing around the hobbit hole.

Dwalin feels a headache coming by the time Bilbo steps into the sitting room, his eyes warm and sympathetic as he watches Frodo try to climb up the dwarf's legs. Dwalin suffers through it with the patience of a saint, even when Sam attacks his other leg.

“You seem to have children on you, Dwalin,” the Burglar says with laughter in his voice, and Dwalin scowls without any heat behind it. It's been a long time since he'd been in company of younglings, so long since anyone had looked at him with such awe. He doesn't deserve it, not one bit, not for what he's done ( _King-slayer,_ the voice in his mind whispers and he shudders), but he basks in the warmth of it anyway, even if it the price for it are hobbit children dangling from his arms.

“I think there's still some cinnamon cookies in the jar,” the halfling says to his nephew and Frodo's eyes light up. “Why won't you and Sam go to the kitchen and fetch it for us?”

The lads immediately release Dwalin from their cluches, running to the kitchen with a joyful shout. The dwarf watches them go, suddenly awkward. Bilbo stands next to him, fiddling with his hands.

“The rooms is ready,” he burts out finally and smiles, unsure. “You won't leave for some time, I hope?”

Dwalin looks down at him, brow furrowed. He shakes his head, crossing his arms on his chest. He has the urge to shuffle this feet but stops himself, glowering instead. Bilbo beams with delight.

“Wonderful!” he says, all happiness and bright eyes.

Dwalin sighs.

 


	4. Chapter 4

On the next morning he wakes disoriented, thoughts still hazy with sleep. His dreams have been plagued by nightmares, as usual, but this time he has no forge to distracts himself from the pain, no metal to shape and ease his grief, so he lays in bed for a long while, breathing harshly through his clenched teeth and pressing his palms to his eyes hard enough to make them water. He doesn't weep. As always.

A patter of tiny feet stops outside his bedroom door. Frodo knocks, very softly as if afraid he would wake him, and opens the door a fraction when he doesn't answer. The lad peeks in, grinning when he sees the dwarf lift his head to look at him. “Uncle's made breakfast, only he said not to wake you,” he whispers and Dwalin grunts in answer, laying his head back onto the fluffy pillow. The bed is too soft, so unlike the bedding he's used to, and his back protests as he moves. He's getting old.

Frodo takes a step inside the bedroom and leans over him, brow furrowed.

“Are you sick, Mister Dwalin?” the lad asks, his voice still quiet as if he was afraid Bilbo would barge in any second now and accuse him of waking their guest.

“No.”

“Good.”

Dwalin closes his eyes with a sigh, but Frodo still stands there looking expectant. The dwarf opens one eye and glares weakly. “What d'ya want, lad?”

“Uncle's made breakfast,” he repeats, frowning.

“You've said.”

“Are you not hungry?”

His stomach answers for him and the hobbitling giggles, muffling his laughter behind his hand. Dwalin sighs again but sits on the bed, running his fingers along his bald scalp and down to his bare chin. He shudders when short hair tickle his rough skin.

“Be there soon.”

Frodo nods enthusiastically, his curls bouncing with every move, and dashes out hollering for his uncle to fry more sausages. Bilbo's answering laughter is warm as he says something to the lad Dwalin cannot hear.

He drags himself out of the bed, chest bare to the world, and plunges his head into the water basin standing on the nearby table. The water is cold enough to remove the last vestiges of sleep but instead of emerging immediately, he lets his forehead rest against the porcelain bottom. He lifts his head only when the lack of air makes him dizy, palms pressed tightly against the little table. He leans forward to look into the mirror. His shoulders tense when he catches his own eye, the reflection staring back at him almost unrecognizable – he's pale, with dark smudges like bruises under his eyes, chin scarred and bare except for a few patches of stubble sprouting from what little unspoiled flesh he has left. His lips are pressed into a tight line so hard he almost cannot see them. He forces himself to relax a bit, rolling his powerful shoulders until some of the tension disappeares.

He sighs and takes a straight razor from his pack, the blade winking at him as the sunrays hit its polished surface. If his hand shakes as he brings it to his chin, well... no one needs to know.

Later, shaved and clothed, he stomps into the kitchen led by the enciting smell of fried meet. His stomach grumbles when the aroma hits his sensitive nose and he sits heavily in one of the wooden chairs by the table with a quiet grunt of a greeting. Bilbo smiles at him, but his eyes are raking over his face with badly veiled concern. Dwalin scowls and the hobbit turns back to the pan he's manning with a shrug.

“Good morning! Hope you like fry-up,” he says, putting a few strips of bacon onto a sizzling pan. Dwalin's mouth water.

He grunts in answer, watching Bilbo prepare the food. Frodo hops onto the seat beside him, bouncing in his chair as he waits for his breakfast. Silence falls over the kitchen then, though not uncomfortable or stifling, and Dwalin relaxes visibly, leaning back into his chair a bit more. The wood creaks but holds under his weight.

Frodo starts humming then, a simple melody Dwalin does not recognize, and Bilbo's voice soon joins him. The lad giggles, humming turning into actual singing, his high voice blending nicely with his uncle's slightly deeper tones. The dwarf listens to them sing, a feeling of utter peace and contentment wrapping around him like a warm blanket. His rattled mind quietens, calms, and there is a sweet nothingness to his thoughts that reminds him of the state right before he falls asleep when his body sinks into the mattress beneath him and he doesn't think of anything at all.

A plate of steaming food appears in front of him then and he realizes with a start that both hobbits are looking at him with amusement. He scowls at the plate, pleasantly surprised that it holds none of the _healthy_ food Bilbo seems to favour.

“Dig in,” Bilbo says, sitting on the other side of the table, “we have a lot of work to do today!”

“Work?” he asks, stabbing one of the sausages with his fork. He brings it closer, sniffing the deliciously smelling food before devouring it in one bite. Bilbo chuckles.

“Yes,” he confirms, serving himself and Frodo some salad alongside the meat. The lad grimaces, eyeing the green leaves with distrust. Dwalin smirks around his sausage and Bilbo scowls at them both halfheartedly, giving Frodo a firm look. The hobbitling sighs but obediently takes up his fork to begin eating. “We should visit the Market today. My pantry needs restocking if you are to stay with us for some time. It's not trouble,” he hastens to say when Dwalin frowns and opens his mouth to protest, “truly, proper shopping needed to be done a long time ago. Don't concern yourself with it.”

They eat breakfast in companionable silence after that, all too focused on their food to converse. After eating, Bilbo shooes Frodo to dress himself. Then he turns to Dwalin, eyebrows climbing up his forehead.

“You're not wearing that, I hope.” Dwalin looks down at himself, patting lightly the chainmail hugging his chest. Leather, fur and iron are maybe a little too much for a summer in the Shire, but Dwalin is too well used to his clothes to let something as unimportant as weather make him abandon them. He crosses his arms across his chest and frowns at the halfling.

“I am,” he says. Bilbo sighs, rubbing his fingers across his mouth as if he was forcing back a smile.

“Can't you at least take off the chainmail?” he pleads, “You'll scare off other patrons.”

At the warrior's wolfish grin Bilbo scowls, throwing up his arms in defeat.

“Fine, have it your way. But,” he adds with a voice like steel, “the axes stay behind.”

“Like hell they are.”

 

*

 

Dwalin stomps towards the Market behind Bilbo with his cheeks still flushed red in anger. The empty space on his back where Grasper and Keeper are normally placed has been taken over by a hobblitling, who sits on his shoulders and shrieks with delight everytime the old warrior jostles him a little in a vain attemp to adjust his grip on the wiggling lad. Frodo's hands are wrapped around his head, tiny fingers tracing the ink visible on the scalp, heels of his large, hairy feet hitting lightly the dwarf's chest to the rythym of his heavy steps.

After a long and quite pointless discussion (Dwalin refuses to call it an argument, least of all a _fight_ ), Bilbo has put his foot down and proclaimed that should Dwalin insist on taking his axes with them to the Market (“have you completely lost your mind, _we're in the Shire_ , for Yananna's sake!”) he would simply have to remain at Bag End and wait for his host and Frodo to come back with the groceries.

Now, that was absolutely out of the question – in the Shire they could be, a place where the most dangerous thing to be seen is a cow, or possibly a pig, but the dwarf has refused to let the hobbits go alone and unprotected, especially Frodo who apparently has the tendency to wander off while his Uncle isn't looking.

It has nothing to do with the fact that Dwalin still feels guilty about attacking Bilbo the other night. Not at all.

And so he has left his beloved weapons by the door and shortly after they started walking he snatched the lad by the collar of his shirt and lifted him with no difficulty up and onto his shoulders. It was safer for the little hobbit, after all, as the old warrior could keep an eye on him at all times. Bilbo sent him a greatful smile before they continued along the narrow road leading down into the village.

The Burglar greets all hobbits they pass with a cheerful “Good morning!” and a brief inquiry about their health and family, blind to their wide eyes and dark glares as they watch the beardless dwarf trail behind Master Baggins with little Frodo perched on his wide, powerful shoulders.

“Ah, Holman, my dear fellow! How good to see you!” Bilbo cries and waves at a hobbit walking towards them. Dwalin's eyes narrow as he studies the stranger – the hobbit has brown curls and is not as finely dressed as Bilbo (his trousers and sleeves are stained with dirt and grass) but he carries a spade that looks wickedly sharp in the morning sun.

“Master Bilbo,” the hobbit, Holman, says with a grin. He swings the spade onto his shoulder, smiling kindly at the Burglar. “How are you? Ah, and Frodo. What a fine mount you have, young master.”

Frodo giggles and Dwalin scowls nastily, but the terrifying effect of his grimace is somewhat gentled by the lad's fingers splayed across his brow and his toothy grin as he peers down at the strange hobbit.

“He's not a horse, he's a dwarf!” Frodo proclaims, bouncing on Dwalin's shoulders.

“Aye, I see that now!” Holman says, smile widening. He winks at Bilbo, leaning against the nearby fence. “And what brings you here so early in the morn, Master Bilbo?”

The Burglar chuckles, cheeks blushing a faint pink. Dwalin's eyebrows rise.

“We're going to the Market, my pantry needs restocking. But where are my manners! Holman, let me introduce my very good friend, Dwalin. Dwalin, this is Holman Greenhand, the finest gardener in the Shire.”

Holman laughs, waving his hand to dismiss the praise. “Please, Master Bilbo, you make me blush. Young Hamfast seems to be taking good care of your gardens. The tomatoes look especially fine this summer.” His eyes move to the dwarf, narrowing ever so slightly. They move across his chin and head and the old warrior's mouth twists in an unpleasant grimace. The hobbit shrugs, still smiling. “Good to finally meet you, Mister Dwalin. Bilbo here told me all about his adventuring with you lot. Made quite a commotion, running off into the blue, shouting about noble quests and all that. Thought him as good as dead when he failed to return for so long. Some say-”

“Holman,” Bilbo starts warningly, his face suddenly anxious. He wrings his hands a bit when the gardener turns to look at him and they both stare at each other for a while, a silent conversation of lifted eyebrows and short nods.

“Master Baggins proved himself to be an exeptionally valuable member of our Company,” Dwalin says then, scowl still firmly in place. Bilbo gapes at him, flushing even brighter pink than before and the strange feeling of satisfaction blooms in the dwarf's chest. He dismisses it, leveling the gardener with a glare. Holman looks at him with a faint smirk lurking around his lips.

“I do not doubt it,” he says lowly. “Why won't the two of you come by to the Green Dragon some time?”

“I'm not sure if it's a good idea,” Bilbo mutters, eyes downcast. Holman's smirk gentles into a sad smile.

“Of course it is, Master Bilbo,” he says, reaching out to squeeze the Burglar's arm reassuringly. His eyes move back to Dwalin. “I bid you good-day. Young Master,” he bows to Frodo with a wink and leaves, whistling a cheery song as he walks along the narrow road, the spade on his shoulder turning gold in the sun.

Bilbo stares after him until the hobbit is out of sight. Then he sighs heavily, running his hands over his face and mumbling something to himself, too quietly for Dwalin to hear. He clears his throat and the Burglar jumps, as if he forgot about their presence. Frodo giggles.

“Sorry,” the halfling says, smiling weakly. Dwalin grunts, wrapping his hands around Frodo's ankles to keep his feet from moving. “Let's go.”

The Market in Hobbiton is not a large place. The one in Bree is certainly bigger, with an abudnace of stalls offering all sorts of produce, the sellers hollering and tempting the buyers to choose their goods instead of others'. Not to mention the marketplace of Erebor – none of the places Dwalin has seen can compare to the grandeour of the dwarven kindgom's markets, rows after rows of stalls overflowing with jewelery and trinkets, delicious smells of cooked food heavy in the air, Dwarves and Men milling about, talking, laughing, arguing...

Dwalin shakes himself from the memories of his old home and looks around instead, noticing how everyone seemed to be _very pointedly_ not looking at them. Bilbo doesn't seem fazed – he smiles at those who happen to catch his eye and greets those he passes even if he recieves no more than a mumble in reponse. Dwalin follows him from stall to stall like a shadow, glaring at anyone who dares to look at him wrong. The atmosphere is odd, cold almost, as if the hobbits would rather see a wolf pilaging their markets than a dwarf accompanying Bilbo on his shopping.

Frodo wiggles on his shoulder, knocking his knuckles lightly right above the warrior's brow. Dwalin looks up at him with a raised eyebrow. “Can I get down?” the lad says, eyes shining with excitement. There are children playing nearby and by the looks Frodo keeps shooting them he would be more than happy to join them. Dwalin turns around to gaze at Bilbo inquiringly. The hobbit nods, a small smile gracing his lips. The dwarf grabs the lad gently by the scruff of his neck and sets him down. Frodo shoots towards the other hobbitlings like an arrow as soon as his feet touch the solid ground.

“Leave him,” Bilbo says as Dwalin moves to follow. He deposits groceries into the dwarf's arms. “Here, help me with these.”

They move from stall to stall, Dwalin growing increasingly frustrated with Bilbo's kind replies to no t-so-kind remarks, his arms already full of packages wrapped in brown paper. The sellers are uncivil towards the gentlehobbit (despite the hulking dwarf hovering over his shoulder like a giant guard dog), some dowright rude, and Dwalin can feel his ears flush red with fury. How _dare_ they? Bilbo is nothing but kind to them, not even commenting the sudden rise of prices wherever they stop. The hobbits seem perfectly civil towards each other, but as soon as Bilbo appears somewhere in their vicinity, cold looks and hushed whispers follow. Is that normal for the Burglar, to be treated so?

Dwalin looks over his shoulder at Frodo, noticing with relief that none of the ostricism his uncle suffers is directed at the lad. He's playing tag with the other children, his high laughter bright with happiness. The dwarf's eyes move around the marketplace, looking for any sign of danger. Satisfied with their surroundings, he turns back to Bilbo who's waiting patiently for a seller to acknowledge him. When the older hobbit refuses to do so for a long moment, Dwalin growls and steps forward.

“You,” he snaps, the packages in his arms leaning dangerously to the side. Bilbo squeaks beside him and tugs on his sleeve but he ignores him, leveling the frightened hobbit with a glare. The seller gulps nervously. “Master Baggins is waiting.”

“O-Of course,” the seller stammers. His wide eyes move to Bilbo and he forces himself to smile. It looks pained. “H-how can I help you, M-master Baggins?”

Bilbo is flushed red with embarrasment as the hobbit packs his purchases quickly, but his little hand settles on Dwalin's forearm and he leans forward a bit, golden curls brushing the dwarf's chin.

“Thank you,” he says, eyes shining with gratitude. Dwalin feels heat climbing up his cheeks and ears. He scowls, but Bilbo only laughs softly, turning back to the seller to take his groceries.

A murmur of voices arises as they walk away from the stall, the hobbits glaring at them for reasons Dwalin doesn't understand. He glares back as good as he gets, his piercing blue eyes narrowed in a silent challenge. None of them dare to take him up on it, their faces paling when they notice the sheer size of his fists and muscles bulging under his chainmail. But the muttering doesn't stop, not even when Frodo runs up to him and clings to his leg, chattering excitedly about his friends and the game they have been playing.

“... bringing him _here,_ of all places...”

“A _disgrace_ , that's what it is...”

“Parading him around, _I say_...”

Dwalin watches Bilbo's shoulders hunch as they walk back to Bag End, his eyes locked firmly on the ground before him and his face pale, and he vows to find out what's going on, even if he has to drag it out of Bilbo by force.

 

*

In the end, he doesn't have to.

After supper, Dwalin settles in the sitting room with his pipe. There is no fire crackling merrily in the fireplace – it is too pleasant for that, the windows of Bag End wide open to let in the fresh air of mid-summer's evening that smells like freshly cut grass and warm ground. The sun is low on the horizon, bathing the sitting room in reds and golds, the last vestiges of sunlight.

He can hear Bilbo talking quietly to Frodo, the lad's high voice going quieter and quieter until it falls completely silent. Bilbo comes in after a moment, shutting the door behind him gently, and smiles at Dwalin. He reaches for his own pipe and stuffs it with Old Toby, humming in thanks when the dwarf leans forward and offers him a match.

They sit in silence for a while, puffing on their pipes. Bilbo chuckles when Dwalin blows out a large but slightly wobbly smoke ring. It hovers in the air for a moment and disappears. Bilbo retaliates with a ring of his own, smaller but perfectly round. The old warrior watches it dispearse when a gentle breeze blows in through the window.

“I'm sorry about earlier,” Bilbo says suddenly, and Dwalin turns around to look at him.

“What?” he asks flatly around the stem of his pipe, frown thunderous.

Bilbo shrugs, figdeting in his seat. The tips of his ears turn red. He doesn't say anything for a long moment, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for an escape route.

“I'm sorry about the other hobbits, back at the marketplace,” he blurts out finally, the redness of his ears spreading down to his cheeks. Dwalin makes a rude sound in the back of his throat.

“Not yer fault,” he mutters, teeth clenching on the wood of his pipe. “But I would have you explain.”

Bilbo blushes even more at that, dropping his gaze to the cold hearth. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, but no sound emerges from his throat. He clears it before he begins to speak, his voice quiet and shaky.

“I've always been different. An only child in an otherwise numerous family, I liked adventures and would often wander off in search of Elves and Dwarves alike when I was a lad.” He chuckles sadly at that, still not looking at Dwalin. The dwarf's eyes are locked firmly on the hoobit as he speaks. “When my parents died and I became Master of Bag End, my family expected me to marry, as any respectable hobbit should. But it quickly became clear that my tastes lay... elsewhere. You have to understand that such... _perversion_ is frowned upon in the Shire. It's not unheard of, but many hobbits think it unnatural. Besides, I ran off with a company of dwarves to retake a mountain and slay a dragon,” he chuckles humourlessly, fiddling with his pipe. “My reputation is completely ruined now.”

Dwalin is staring at Bilbo in stunned silence.

“Perversion?” he repeats, his frown deepening. What does Bilbo mean by that? Surely not...

“You don't,” he says slowly, eyes wide as he watches the hobbit go redder, “you don't mean to say...”

Bilbo's face goes pale in a second, his eyes suddenly wide and frightened. He jumps from his seat, pipe forgotten, and lifts his palms in a placating manner.

“Oh, Dwalin, you mustn't think that I would... that I would... oh, bebother and confound it, I would never do anything to make you uncomfortable!”

Dwalin watches him in silence. “I don't understand,” he says finally in a flat voice.

The Burglar wrings his hands in a gesture that betrays his nervousness. He seems afraid, as if expecting the dwarf to shun him, or even strike him.

“I...” Bilbo swallows and wraps his hands around his middle, gaze locked firmly on the floor. “I do not find the females attractive. At all.”

Dwalin stares at him for a long time. He snorts out a short laugh, then another. Bilbo's head snaps up and the Burglar watches with wide eyes as the warrior throws his head back and roars in laughter, slapping his tighs in between the bursts of helpless chortling. The hobbit scowls.

“It is very good to know,” he says coldly, “that you find it so amusing.”

Dwalin laughs for a long while before he forces himself to stop, sides and belly aching from the sudden burst of hilarity. He wipes the corners of his eyes, chuckling softly now and again. It's been such a long time since he had laughed so openly.

“My apologies,” he says, “You think a male laying with another male is _perverted_? Good gods, halfling, I thought you meant you like to lay with animals, or something of that sort.”

“Animals!” Bilbo cries in dismay, face twisting in a disgusted grimace. “Why would you even think that!”

“What else was I s'pposed to think, y'said you were a pervert!”

Bilbo stares at Dwalin in silence, a confused frown marring his face.

“What do you dwarves call it then? When a male lays with another male?” he asks quietly, sitting back down in his armchair. Dwalin glances at him with rised eyebrows.

_Lust,_ he thinks, eyes roaming over Biblo's flushed face and bright eyes, the curve of his full lips.

“Love,” he says instead. “What else are we to call it? Male or female, it doesn't matter much to dwarves, Master Baggins. Love is love, isn't it? If yer One is a male, then he's a male. Mahal doesn't make mistakes.”

“One?” Bilbo repeats, curious as a newborn kitten. Dwalin grunts, pulling a long drag from his pipe. He releases the smoke slowly, enjoying the sight of Bilbo Baggins getting flustered with impatience.

“Aye,” he mutters finally around the stem of his pipe. “Not all dwarves have a One. I don't, for one. But many do, and it's the greatest joy to find the other half of your soul. Male or female, what does it matter in the face of such blessing?”

He had thought his King was his One for some time, as a lad. Whishful thinking, as his dear friend had often spoken of longing deep in his heart for his One where Dwalin did not. They were best of friends, and at some point the warrior had thought himself in love but it was short lived fancy of a young dwarf. He admired and respected his King, loved him as a brother.

But he had failed him when it mattered most.

“So... among dwarves, it's normal?” Bilbo says in a quiet voice and Dwalin nods numbly. His thoughts are spirraling down into darkness again, memories of old resurfacing despite his best efforts to stop them. Bilbo's quiet hum distracts him and when he looks at the Burglar, the hobbit smiles sadly but reassuringly. The dwarf lets his shoulder slump a bit as he relaxes against the armchair, unwanted thoughts kept at bay for now.

“Aye,” he grumbles, “so don't concern yourself on my behalf, Master Baggins. Your prefereces don't bother me.”

“Bilbo.”

Dwalin frowns. “Hm?”

“My name is Bilbo.”

“I'm aware.”

The Burglar scowls, but there is an amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes shine with mirth.

“Since you're aware, you may as well drop the “Master,” he mutters and takes a long drag from his pipe. Dwalin inclines his head with a smirk. They sit in silence for the rest of the evening, listening to the cicadas sing in the hobbit's garden until the air gets chilly and Bilbo gets up to close the window. He stands in front of it for a minute, his back towards the dwarf, and when he turns there is a gentle smile on his round face. “Thank you,” he says quietly, cheeks flushing a faint pink. Dwalin shrugs carelessly, trying to let the Burglar know it was nothing.

“I think that was the longest conversation we've ever had,” the hobbit continues with a chuckle, emptying his pipe into the hearth. “You're not a dwarf of many words, as far as I know.”

“Aye,” Dwalin says with a frown, “you talk for two, though.”

Bilbo splutters in outrage, but his eyes betray his amusement. “And you apparently know more than a handful of sentences,” he returns cheekily and Dwalin huffs, trying to stop his own lips from stretching into an answering smile. He glowers weakly instead and Bilbo finally laughs, the sound warm and sweet, and the warrior realizes he has not heard the hobbit laugh since their outing to the marketplace.

For some reason, the thought sits ill with him.

 


	5. Chapter 5

When Holman bursts into Bag End and bullies Bilbo into agreeing to come to the Green Dragon Dwalin wants to weep with relief.

He has been staying with the hobbits for only a week and he's already climbing the walls in boredom. There is no forge to distract him when his thoughts spiral into darkness, so he took to wandering the outskirts of Hobbiton, usually with Frodo and Sam sneaking behind him. He doesn't mind that much, as long as the lads stay out of his way for at least a few hours. When grief lays heavy on his heart (or rather, heavier than usual), and when the cold dagger of guilt burries itself deeper into his chest, he needs the time to think and mourn in peace. The shame never leaves him and neither does the aforementioned guilt, but the peaceful rolling hills have a somewhat calming effect on him and he enjoys the quiet moments of solitude as much as he can.

Especially since Bilbo Baggins has decieded to make his life even more miserable than it already is.

It started out simply, sneaking up on him when he had least expected it as such things usually do. One the fifth day (he remembers distinctly it was the _fifth_ day), he awoke at dawn. Bilbo and Frodo were still slumbering judging by the stillness ruling in the smial, so Dwalin went to the kitchen to prepare himself a light breakfast and enjoy the early morning in peace. There was an itch under his skin, an uncomfortable feeling of too much energy pent up in his body, and he longed for his hammer and an anvil to release it. His thoughts quickly wandered to the task he had appointed himself after the disastrous argument between him and his host on the first day of his stay. Accusing the hobbit of lying and manhandling him... such actions required a proper apology. He had already sketched the rough idea he had in mind on a piece of paper stolen from Frodo's stash – a set of gardening tools made of iron with wooden handles polished to high shine. Simple in design, but sturdy and useful.

Balin would approve, no doubt.

He stood with his back towards the door as he made himself a simple sandwitch, deep in thought over the detail of his project, when a sound of someone clearing their throat startled him violently enough to make him whip around with a buttering knife held in front of him like a weapon.

A sight of Bilbo Baggins with his curls mussed, bleary-eyed and flushed from sleep, dressed in a set of violet pyjamas and a robe hanging askew on his thin shoulders twisted Dwalin's insides in a way he would not dare to speak of.

“Wh'ar y'doin',” Bilbo mumbled rubbing his eyes, not even fazed by a rather blunt knife pointed right at his chest. Dwalin lowered his hand, dropping the “weapon” onto the counter with a clang.

“Sandwitch,” he said numbly, watching the robe slide down the hobbit's shoulder and drag with it the blasted pyjamas. The exposed skin was pale, speckled with a few freckles, soft-looking and unblemished by scars that riddled Dwalin's own body.

Except for a large bruise in the shape of a broad thumb right where the collarbone meets the shoulder.

Dwalin stared at it in horror. It was already fading from deep blue and purple to sickly green, yellowing around the edges. The colours still looked starkingly bright against the paleness of Bilbo's skin and the dwarf realized that the bruise must have hurt for quite some time, perhaps still did. He looked down at his hands, rubbing absentmindedly the thumb with his index finger, feeling so ashamed at himself he was unable to look Bilbo in the eye. He had hurt the hobbit, his host and friend, caused him pain... the thought almost made him ill.

Bilbo's smaller hands wrapped around his and squeezed his fingers. He looked much more awake, though there was still softness to his features that spoke of long and deep sleep, his eyelids dropping once in a while in a longer blink. There was an imprint of a pillow on his cheek and Dwalin felt the urge to reach out and feel it against his skin, lean down and claim the soft lips-

Wait, _what_?!

Bilbo was smiling up at him, his delicate fingers still wrapped around Dwalin's broader ones, and he suddenly realized how rough and callous-ridden the skin of his hands was, both from his axes and the hammer from the forge. He tried to pull away gently, but Bilbo held fast – his eyes focused on the dwarf's blue ones, hard as steel.

“You didn't hurt me,” he said, “I promise. So stop fussing.”

Dwalin looked pointedly at the bruise then back at Bilbo but he hobbit simply chuckled, the sound sweet and bright. He shrugged and the robe slid down even further. Dwalin traced its path with his stare. When he looked up, Bilbo was regarding him with an odd expression on his face. He smirked. Dwalin's stomach twisted at the sight.

“What, this silly old thing?” he murmured with a mischivous glint in his green eyes, and the dwarf had a, odd feeling the hobbit wasn't speaking only about the bruise. “Didn't even hurt.” His expression turned slightly sly and he rocked on his feet a bit, swaying closer to the dwarf. “And who knows, maybe I like it.”

Heat exploded over Dwalin's cheeks and ears. He averted his gaze hastily and Bilbo laughed again, but the sound was different this time – deeper, somehow more intimate, it reverberated through the old warrior's bones like the stroke of a hammer on an unshaped metal.

He needed to get out.

It seemed that the Burglar noticed his agitation – his flushed cheeks paled suddenly and the sly look disappeared. He might have mumbled a quiet, sheepish “sorry” but Dwalin could not be entirely sure; he excused himself and escaped from the kitchen, trying to look like he wasn't fleeing.

When the door to his bedroom closed with a quiet click, Dwalin looked down at the front of his trousers and cursed violently enough to make the toughest of warriors blush.

Since that morning, Bilbo seemed to be more careful around Dwalin. He didn't look him in the eye for longer than a few seconds even when they were conversing (though the dwarf would be hard pressed to call it a conversation, since it involved him speaking not as much as _to_ but _at_ Bilbo), avoided touching him (and who knew Dwalin would find himself missing the fleeting touches on the arm or the wrist to get his attention) and spent more time in his study than ever. Dwalin knew the hobbit was working on his book about the quest and the task was more than time-consuming, but the Burglar had always found time to be around Frodo, and consequently Dwalin, and indulge the lad in a game or story of his youthful exploits.

Dwalin was no stranger to avoidance; indeed, the dwarves of Ered Luin where his kin lived after Erebor was lost to Smaug were cautious around him, not only because of his title (the Captain of the Royal Guard was not to be trifled with), but also because of his short temper and a rather intimidating physique. He certainly didn't mind – he had a reputation to uphold, and beside his very few friends and his brother he cared little for the opinion of other dwarves.

But the thought of the Burlar avoiding him... it sat ill with him, indeed. He wanted to talk to the hobbit; or rather, he wanted _the hobbit_ to talk to _him,_ about... about anything, really. He could even talk about his prized tomatoes if he so desired and the dwarf would be more than content to listen to Bilbo chatter on about his garden in that lovely, chirping voice of his. But he needed a situation that would prevent Master Baggins from fleeing before he even opened his mouth to say something and make him talk.

So when Holman bursts into the smial and Bilbo reluctantly relents into joining him for a “pint and a good laugh” at the Green Dragon after almost an hour of quiet arguing, Dwalin agrees to accompany them on Holman's insistence quite readily. Bilbo shoots him a quick, alarmed glance, but his expression smoothens into indifference almost immediately. Dwalin stops himself from going over to the blasted hobbit and shaking some sense into him. He has to proceed with caution, after all.

He has long since accepted that he wants the halfling. He wants to mark him, to possess him, to take him until he begs for mercy. But he also knows that a large part of it is the pent up energy inside of him, pleading to be released in one way or another. He is no stranger to desire and lust, having more than adventurous youth since he had no One to worry about, but he has never had anyone outside his own race and he isn't going to change that for a quick and meaningless tumble in the hay. With a hobbit, no less!

No, it isn't going to happen. But having Bilbo not speak to him and avoid his gaze... that is unnacceptable.

Frodo whines and grumbles when Bilbo tells him he will have to spend the night at their neighbours', clingling stubbornly to Dwalin's leg and shaking his curly head, his face pressed to the rough fabric of the dwarf's trousers. The lad has been following the old warrior for days now, shadowing his every step like an eager pup begging for attention. Dwalin doesn't mind, not at all – Frodo is a good lad, well-behaved and sweet, but he grew attatched to the dwarf very quickly and it seemed like he haven't even entertained the thought that his new playmate would leave them. And leave them he must – he has a forge to take care of and money to make to survive the winter. There is no place for him in the Shire.

In the evening, after promising the lad they would collect him early in the morning and escorting him to “the Gamgees'”, ( Dwalin hesitates to leave the lad with strangers but he calms somewhat when he sees Sam's ruddy little face peeking at them from the window of the smial) Bilbo and Dwalin make their way down into the village, the hobbit walking stifly ahead and the dwarf following after his host, his piercing eyes focused on the back of the Burglar's curly head. They have not spoken a word since Holman left Bag End and the silence lays heavy between them, stifling like thick mist.

When Bilbo finally speaks his voice is shaky, almost scared, and Dwalin stands straighter and looks around to check for danger. There is nothing leering back at them from the bushes half hidden in the long shadows cast by the setting sun.

“Whatever happens there,” Bilbo mutters, not turning around to face him. His eyes are focused on the tavern visible in the distance, the echo of boisterous laughter coming from its bowels making the hobbit flinch, “whatever they say, please...” he swallows and turns around then, showing Dwalin his pale face and wide, scared eyes, “please... ignore it, don't pay them heed. Their words are just that – words.”

Dwalin narrows his eyes, his face twisting into a grimace. _Just words, my arse. They hurt you more than a blow would._

“I will not let any harm come to you, Burglar,” he says firmly, halting the hobbit's protest with a raised hand. “ _Any_ harm.”

And how could he, when the hobbit has invited him to his home, treated like royalty instead of an exile, fed him more food than he could possibly eat and, most important of all, called him his _friend_.

That's what friends do, after all. Protect each other, fight for each other. Die for each other.

Dwalin shakes his head sharply, trying to dismiss the image springing forth into his mind, an image he both longs to forget and never wants to erase from memory – his King dying on the battlefield, eyes full of misery and guilt as he stares at his dead nephews, looking up and meeting Dwalin's terrified stare before unconciousness claims him...

His biggest failure and his biggest shame. He has no right to forget it.

“Please, just...” Bilbo hesitates again, but there is a weak smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Don't kill anyone.”

“No promises,” Dwalin mutters and the hobbit chuckles. It's the first time Dwalin has heard him laugh since their unfortunate encounter in the kitchen and there is an uncomfortable feeling of tightness in his chest at the sound, as if there isn't enough room to contain his breath.

They walk the rest of the way in silence, but Bilbo moves to Dwalin's side intead of walking ahead of him. The warrior can feel the heat from the halfling's hand almost brushing his and shivers, waiting for and dreading the touch of soft skin against his rough one. But Bilbo's fingers never meet his – instead, the hobbit slowly folds his hands against the small of his back, the points of his elf-like ears visible through his hair flushed pink. Dwalin's fingers twitch with the desire to touch the heated skin, run his tongue along the shell of the halfling's ear, nibble on the soft skin behind it, Bilbo squirming and moaning under him...

Damn and blast it.

As they near the tavern Bilbo becomes paler and paler, his steps faltering the closer they get - he looks ready to bolt before even setting foot over the threshold. Dwalin's hand, as if living a life of its own, grazes Bilbo's before wrapping around it firmly. The dwarf's bigger hand swallows the halfling's delicate one, holding it in a prison or strong fingers and gentle warmth, thwarting any potential plans of escape. Dwalin feels Bilbo shudder against him and his fingers twitch as if to shake the dwarf off when two hobbits sitting outside the Green Dragon throw them dark looks over the brims of their pipes, but Dwalin has none of it – he tightens his hold and leads Bilbo inside, scowling at the hobbits as they pass.

Dwalin spots Holman in the corner of the tavern, chatting merrily to another hobbit with tankard of ale in front of him, cheeks already rosy from laughter and drink. Ignoring the hush that falls over the pub when other patrons notice them and their still clasped hands, Dwalin leads Bilbo between long, wooden tables and sturdy benches, tugging him gently along. He looks over his shoulder briefly, noting the Burglar's flushed cheeks and ears with an odd stirring in his gut, and he lets his lips twist into a reassuring smile.

Or at least he _hopes_ it's reassuring.

Bilbo's answering smile is a little shaky, a bit unsure. But it's there.

Holman leaps to his feet when he sees them, all bright smile and excitement, and motions for them to sit. They comply, hands separating. Dwalin tries not to miss the warmth of Bilbo's palm in his.

“Dwalin, this is Hamfast Gamgee,” Bilbo says and the hobbit sitting opposite Dwalin inclines his head in greeting, his warm, brown eyes glittering with amusement. “Sam's father and my gardener.”

“Dwalin, at your service,” the dwarf says, bowing shortly. “You've a fine lad, Mister Gamgee.”

“Oh, just Hamfast will do”, the gardener answers, running his callous-ridden hands through his curly hair. “One of six, my Sam, but thank you. Me and Missus are very proud of 'im.”

“As you should,” Bilbo says with a smile, more genuine this time.

The two talk about children and their exploits, Bilbo's bright laughter sending thrilling shivers down the dwarf's back. Would he laugh in bed, quiet giggles as they explore each other? Would he squirm and shy away from Dwalin's proding fingers with a squeal? Would he reach out and return the touch, chuckling at Dwalin's reaction to his nimble fingers? Would he...

Dwalin realizes he's been watching the Burglar chat with his gardener and he snaps his gaze away hastily. It lands on Holman who's watching him with a small smile lurking around his mouth, eyes calculating.

“So, Master Dwarf,” he says and Bilbo and Hamfast turn to look at them. “What brings you to the Shire?”

Dwalin stiffens in his seat. He has no desire to tell the hobbit about his exile, but he's never been a good liar if Balin is to be believed. Bilbo watches him for a moment, clearly seeing his struggle, and chimes in, voice pleasant and carefree: “Why, can't a dwarf visit his friend once in a while? Truly, Holman, you sound as if you'd want to chase poor Dwalin away!”

Holman splutters, cheeks reddening, and he hastily assures the dwarf that his presence is more than welcome, more than welcome indeed!

But the calculating expression doesn't leave his eyes, not even when Hamfast brings them another pint of ale which Dwalin accepts with a quiet grunt. He can feel Holman's eyes on his bald head and shaved chin, raking over his scars with intensity that makes Dwalin almost fidget. He meets the hobbit's gaze instead, lifting an eyebrow in a silent challege. Holman chuckles at that, rising his mug ever so slightly, finally abandoning his careful study.

The more they drink, the more Bilbo relaxes. After a few more mugs, he's breathless from laughter, his cheeks rosy and eyes bright. His shoulder brushes against Dwalin and he leans a little bit more into his side as another burst of helpless giggling spills from his mouth, his flushed forehead pressed to the dwarf's bicep, thin shoulders shaking with mirth. The old warrior can feel the heat coming off of Bilbo's body and seeping into his skin, warming him. He relaxes, letting Bilbo lean against him a little bit harder.

“Disgusting-”

“-how dare he, bringing such filth in here-”

“Someone ought to teach him a lesson or two, to be sure...”

Bilbo stiffens beside him, whole body going suddenly tenser than a bowstring, and he moves away, face white as fleshly fallen snow. Hamfast stops talking, swirling around to glare at the cluster of hobbits seating near the door, all of them already quite drunk. Dwalin looks at Bilbo for a long while, rage swelling in his chest when more whispers sail towards them – the hobbit's smile leaves his lips and he's staring at the table blankly, Holman already reaching out to clasp his arm and draw him back into a conversation.

“Shouldn't be rising a child, who knows what's going on behind closed doors...”

Bilbo flinches as if struck.

Dwalin stands. Bilbo grasps his sleeve in a silent plea, but he yanks his arm away, moving with deadly grace towards the hobbits. They have not yet noticed his presence, the filth leaving their mouth feeding Dwalin's fury enough to see red. One of the hobbits who sits facing the tavern closes his mouth and pales when he sees the dwarf stop near their table, arms crossed on his chest as he looks at them with no expression on his scarred face. His companions notice his sudden silence and lift their gazes, mouths falling open in shock. The one sitting with his back to Dwalin continues as you please, the leer in his voice causing Dwalin's massive hands to curl into fists.

“Probably spreads his legs for all to-”

The hobbit has no chance to finish the sentence before a huge hand slams him face first into the table. He howls when his nose smashes against the wood, blood already flowing freely down his chin.

“What the-”

He swirls around, an ugly grimace twisting his round face. He pales at the sight of Dwalin, who again crosses his arms on his chest as if all he did was give the hobbit a friendly pat on the back.

“I believe,” the dwarf says, voice light and pleasant. The hobbits shudder, “ ye should apologise to Master Baggins. And leave.”

The hobbit with the bleeding nose spits on the floor near Dwalin's boots, ale making him brave.

“Apologise, should we? You hear that, lads? The dwarf wants us to apologise to his whore of a love-ARGH!”

Dwalin's right hook knocks the hobbit right out, his unconscious body slipping to the floor with a thud. The dwarf gazes at the him for a moment, then looks up at the rest. His face twists into a terrifying grimace and he cracks his fingers, the sound of bones popping making the hobbits shudder in fright.

“Who's next?,” he asks gruffly and the hobbits jump from their seats, apologies spilling from the mouth in an almost incoherent babble. They leave with their companion held between them, avoiding the old warrior's gaze and flinching at his every move.

The tavern is eerily quiet as he returns to the table, Holman and Hamfast watching him with wide-eyed fascination. Finally, the gardener guffaws, hooting laughter making his plump body shake with mirth. Holman joins him in his amusement, slapping Dwalin's shoulder and pressing a mug of ale into his hand. He downs it in one go, the chilled liquid soothing his parched throat.

He glances at Bilbo as he puts the mug away, brow furrowing in concern. The hobbit is still deathly pale, staring blankly at the pint in front of him. He sniffs then, a quiet sound that seems to escape him despite his best efforts to stop it, and Hamfast's smile slides off his lips. The gardener reaches out with a quiet “Oh, Bilbo”, but the Burglar stands and moves to the door with such speed Dwalin barely has time to react.

He jumps to his feet, but Bilbo has already disappeared through the entrance to the tavern, vanishing from sigh. Holman sighs heavily, guilt shining in his eyes.

“Go on, go after him. Yavanna knows he needs a friend right now,” he mutters and Dwalin leaves with a nod, rushing out after the halfling.

He sees him marching towards Bag End, arms wrapped around his middle, and he hastens after him, his longer legs quickly eating up the distance between them. He falls into step with the hobbit, unsure what to do. He wants to pull him into his arms and comfort him, but he has never given comfort before to someone who wasn't kin. None of his past lovers had ever wanted it from him, and he himself never wanted to offer. But here, now, seeing his hobbit so distraught...

Bilbo stops suddenly, his curly hair hiding his face from view

“I'd like to be alone,” he says, his voice a mere whisper, but Dwalin is already shaking his head, scowling lightly.

“No.”

“Dwalin-”

“I said no.”

Bilbo's shoulders slump in misery and defeat. He steps closer to the dwarf then, resting his forehead against his breast. His body - so much smaller than Dwalin's, so much more fragile – is shaking with each breath he takes. His trembling hands curl around the dwarf's sleeves, holding on so tight his knuckles turn white. The old warrior stares at the top of the Burglar's curly head, his arms hanging uselessly by his side. After what feels like an age, he lifts them hesitantly, letting one of his hands rest on Bilbo's head, the other on his shoulder. The hobbit makes a sound then, choked and desperate. Dwalin lifts his head to look at the sky above them and tightens his hold on Bilbo's shoulder. His fingers are burried in the soft locks and he strokes the golden hair as the halfling shakes and sobs against him. He doesn't look down. He's not entirely sure he would be able to stand the sight of Bilbo's tears and stop himself from hunting down and murdering every single hobbit who has ever looked at him wrong.

When the Burglar stops shaking against him and his sobs turn into quiet sniffles, the stars are already out and shining brightly above them. Dwalin dares to look down then, something in his chest twisting painfully at the sight of Bilbo's red eyes and tear-stained cheeks. He moves his hand from the hobbit's shoulder to his face hesitantly, running his fingers along the soft jaw, up to the temple and finally into his hair. He leans forward then, resting his forehead against Bilbo's, both of his hands cradling his curly head. His fingers brush against the pointy tips of the hobbit's ears.

Bilbo stiffens against him but relaxes momentarily, pressing closer and closing his eyes. They breathe in tandem for a while, the thumping in Dwalin's chest quickening with each gust of the hobbit's breath against his bare face. He marvels at the feeling of warmth on his chin and cheeks, so unfamiliar and yet not unpleasant.

“Alright?” he rumbles, his fingers moving through soft stands of the halfling's hair on their own volition.

“Yes,” Bilbo whispers back, tightening his grip on Dwalin's shirt, his chest all but pressed against the dwarf's.

He opens his eyes, the brilliant green even brighter with unshead tears. Dwalin stares in numb shock as the hobbit slowly stands on his toes and his breath, both sweet and bitter from ale, ghosts across the dwarf's lips.

Bilbo rocks on his feet a little, leaning even closer, his eyes suddenly heavy-lidded and smouldering, and Dwalin feels heat uncurl in his belly at the sight, lips parting slowly as Bilbo's luscious mouth near his.

Moving his hand to Bilbo's cheek, he stiffens when his fingers graze the wetness on his skin and Bilbo freezes against him, his mouth only a whisper away.

The dwarf exhales shakily, letting both his hands rest on the halfling's shoulders. He pushes him away gently, not meeting his eye.

“No,” he murmurs. _Not here. Not now. Not like this._

He doesn't see the way Bilbo's face crumples at the softly spoken word. The broken expression on his face changes quickly to the one of indifference and the hobbit shrugs, taking a step back.

“Of course,” he says lightly, turning on his heel. Dwalin flinches when the Burglar moves away from him, the loss of warmth radiating from his smaller body making the dwarf shudder. “Let's go back. It's late.”

And he marches towards Bag End again, his steps sure, back ramrod straight.

Dwalin rubs his face with his hands, the bareness of his chin once again alien and unpleasant. He squares his shoulder after a while, schooling his face into its usual grimace.

 _Fool,_ he thinks, and follows the hobbit to his home. _You utter fool._

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

When Dwalin goes to collect Frodo from the Gamgees' the lad runs up to him with a joyful shriek and flings himself at the dwarf with no concern for his own safety. Dwalin catches him before the lad can manage to somehow break his neck on his knee and hoists him up and onto his shoulders.

“Mister Dwalin!” Frodo yells into his ear, fingers splayed over the dwarf's eyes. Dwalin scowls half-heartedly, catching the lad's hands and moving them up on to forehead. Frodo has none of it – he leans down, wrapping his hands around the warrior's head and laces his fingers under his chin to tug his head upwards. They look at each other upside down, Frodo's grin bright.

“Good morning, Mister Dwalin,” the lad says breathlessly, “Did you know that Sam has rabbits? Real rabbits! They're so fluffly and Missus Bell let us feed them this morning, and then-”

The lad chatters on and on about the rabbits and Dwalin grunts whenever he's expected to. A hobbit lady emerges from the smial then, a flowery apron around her waist and streaks of flour on her face and in her hair. She waves cheerfully, approaching the dwarf and Frodo.

“Hello, Mister Dwalin,” she greets him, smiling warmly. “I'm Bell Gamgee, Hamfast's wife. Glad to finally meet you – Sammy has been talking about nothing but you for the last few days, and Frodo here, too. Good to finally put a face to the legend.”

“Hardly a legend, ma'am,” he says, adjusting his hold on the wiggling hobbitling. Frodo laughs, laying his cheek against Dwalin's tattooed scalp.

“Oh, I beg to differ,” she mutters, casting an appreciative glance at his bulging muscles. Dwalin feels heat rise on his cheeks and clears his throat.

“Well, we must go,” he grunts, trying to ignore Bell's quiet chuckling at his embarrasment.

“Thanks, Missus Bell!” Frodo hollers from his perch on the dwarf's shoulders.

“Not at all, m'boy, not at all,” she says, but soon her eyes move back to Dwalin's. Her expression turns concerned. “Hamfast told me what happened last night. How's Master Bilbo?”

“He's alright,” he mutters, shrugging. As a matter of fact, he has no idea how Bilbo is – the hobbit has been suspiciously cheerful all morning, puttering about his kitchen as if nothing has happened. It feels wrong somehow, this joyful demeanor, when only last night he was sobbing his heart out in Dwalin's arms.

Although maybe it would be best not to think about Bilbo in his arms, warm and pliant, his breath on the dwarf's lips, his eyes bright...

Bell makes a clicking noise with her tongue, frowning. “He has a habit of hiding his hurts,” she says disapprovingly. “You musn't let it fool you.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he says, frowning up at Frodo as the lad's hands tug at his ears.

“Let's go, let's go!” pleads the hobbitling, “Uncle's waiting!”

Bell laughs, her cheeks dimpling prettily. “Off you go then! And do give Master Bilbo our best!”

Dwalin grunts in ackolwedgement, already turning around to trudge back to Bag End. Frodo chatters and bounces on his shoulders, but Dwalin barely hears him. Bilbo is hurting, that much is certain. But how is Dwalin supposed to make him talk? He isn't a good advice giver and he has never had the patience to listen to someone ramble on and on about _feelings_ _._ His lip curls in distaste at the very thought. His whole life Dwalin has been the kind of dwarf whose only “advice”, if you could even call it that, was to “suck it up and move on”. Even Th-... even his King knew that, though that didn't stop him from gushing praises and speculations about his One. Dwalin hated it, when he was a lad, jealousy clawing at his chest like a monster it was, but he listened and grunted when expected. Because that was what his best friend and cousin needed.

And now Bilbo needs him too.

Who is Dwalin to refuse him, after all that happened?

Frodo begs to be let down and the warrior obliges absentmindedly, watching the hobbitling burst into the smial with a cheerful greeting. His Uncle's chuckle sounds odd, almost fake, and Dwalin frowns. Bilbo appears in the doors leading into the kitchen, his apron streaked with flour. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his face is pale with exhaustion, but he smiles thinly at Frodo as the lad describes his night at the Gamgees' and the famous rabbits in a constant flow of high-pitched chatter.

Bilbo's been baking, Dwalin thinks, narrowing his eyes. He _never_ bakes when he's upset.

It is a simple obervation Dwalin has established quite early into his stay with the hobbits. When Bilbo was upset about something or other, like Dwalin been stubborn and not leaving his axes whenever they went into town, he would huff and puff and lock himself in his study until he cooled down. But that was a different kind of “upset”, Bilbo had been angry then, and now... now he looks...

Miserable.

Bilbo isn't simply angry; he's hurt, the filth and lies falling from the hobbits' mouth last night weighing heavily on his shoulders like a great burden. And Dwalin doesn't even know how to comfort him.

Useless.

He's _useless._ He can't help Bilbo, because he doesn't know how; he couldn't help his King, because he was too weak. What use is he, if he can't protect his friends?

Bilbo and Frodo retreat to the kitchen, but Dwalin stays in the foyer, staring at his rough, scarred hands as if he saw them for the first time. A killers' hands, big and broad, strong enough to crush a man's skull like an egg. He remembers the feeling of Bilbo's soft hair under his fingers and the halfling's shivering body pressed into his, from head to toe. He closes his eyes and breathes slowly though his nose, deep, calming breaths; Bilbo's slighter body felt so good against his, warm and soft, and yet Dwalin couldn't give him comfort, coulnd't chase the misery away from his beautiful eyes. He could fight a pack of wolves and slaughter orcs if need be, but when Bilbo turned those tearful eyes at him, he had been lost.

He didn't know what to do, so he did what he knew, what was familiar – he knocked their foreheads together, gently, gently, not to hurt him, never hurt him; and Bilbo's breath against his lips, his flushed cheeks, his bright eyes...

Dwalin pinches himself, hard, scowling at the wall.

“Mister Dwalin!” Frodo hollers and the dwarf sighs, turning towards the kitchen with a heavy heart. There are five different kinds of pies on the tabletop, Frodo already digging into one of them with glee. Dwalin stares at Bilbo's back, but the hobbit doesn't ackowledge him. He putters around the worktop as he always does, but this time he doesn't sing or hum or whistle, and Dwalin feels his heart sink.

He was right. Bilbo is hurting.

Damn and blast it. What is he to do?

“Have some pie, Mister Dwalin!” Frodo says, patting the empty seat next to him and Dwalin lowers himself gingerly on the wooden chair. His eyes never leave Bilbo.

“There's a blackberry pie next to you,” the Burglar says quietly without turning around and Dwalin wants to grab him and shake him until the blasted hobbit looks at him again.

But he doesn't. He eats his pie in silence instead, the taste like ash in his mouth.

 

*

 

In the evening, Bilbo goes to Frodo's room to tell him a bedtime story and Dwalin leans against the wall outside the lad's room, out of sight, and listens.

“Well, what will it be this time, m'lad?” Bilbo asks, settling himself on the hobbitling's bed. Frodo thinks for a long time about which story he'd like to hear, and Dwalin's heart seems to stop when he finally hears a quiet: “Will you tell me about King Thorin, Uncle?”

There is silence in the room after that, and Dwalin can't breathe, his chest is suddenly too tight. He wants to leave, but his legs refuse to move, rooting him to the spot, and he stiffles a pained moan when Bilbo starts to speak.

His voice is low and gentle, but Dwalin can hear the pain underneath, quiet grief pouring from every word. He speaks of his King, his friend; of how stubborn he was, and how pigheaded at himes, but also kind, and loyal and brave; how he rushed to defend Bilbo from the Trolls, and how he risked his life to save him from the tumble down the cliff-face in the Misty Mountains; how his black hair fell down his back like a thick curtain, and how his fierce eyes gentled when he looked at his nephews.

Frodo begs to be told about the princes, too, and Dwalin feels his knees shake. Bilbo obliges, of course, this time more readily, chuckling at Frodo's soft giggles as he tells him of the lads' pranks and jokes. He speaks of their bravery and skill; of Fili's twin swords that flashed in and out of sight as he twirled and danced around his enemies, deadly and graceful; of Kili's arrows that never lost their mark, and of his keen gaze and easy grin.

With every word Dwalin's breath grows more and more ragged, and he closes his eyes at the onslaugh of pain.

“Remember them, Frodo,” Bilbo whispers gently at last.

“Kili, son of Dis,” the lad says sleeply, “and his brother, Fili, the Crown Prince.”

“Good, good,” Bilbo mutters, and his voice is thick with tears. Dwalin swallows heavily. He mouths the lad's next words along, his hands clenched so hard his knuckles turn white.

“Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain.”

 

*

 

When Bilbo comes out from Frodo's room and closes the doors behind him softly, Dwalin is seated in one of the armchairs in the sitting-room. His hands shake as he tries to pack his pipe.

Bilbo stops in the doorway, watching the dwarf fumble and curse under his breath, and he sighs. Stepping over the threshold, he holds out his hand and waits for Dwalin to ackowledge him.

The warrior, stubborn arse that he is, doesn't even look at him as he scowls and mutters in Khuzdul at his pipe. Only when Bilbo clicks his fingers in impatience does he glance up, his frown thunderous. He growls something the hobbit doesn't understand, but hands over his pipe and the little pouch full of pipe-week. Bilbo ignores the latter, packing the dwarf's pipe with Old Toby instead with quick fingers, and hands it back.

Dwalin's hand closes around his as he takes back his pipe, lingering on the soft skin of Bilbo's palm. The hobbit is the first to break the contact, looking away with a flush.

Dwalin watches him fidget over the brim of his pipe. Finally, he nods shortly to the armchair next to his and Bilbo sinks into it gratefully. He shouldn't have been so awkward around the dwarf – it is his house, after all, and Dwalin would never want him to feel like his company is unwelcome. It is welcome. Very much so.

“You heard, then?” Bilbo asks and Dwalin almost chokes on the smoke curling from his lips. The hobbit chuckles shortly at that, but he doesn't move to slap Dwalin on the back as he usually does when the smoke goes in wrong. The warrior doesn't allow himself to mourn the loss of the hobbit's touch, no matter how brief.

“Aye,” he says finally, and Bilbo nods. They fall silent after that, both lost in thought.

“I should turn in for the night,” Bilbo says finally, but Dwalin has a feeling it is not what he wanted to say at all. The looks at the hobbit, waiting, but Bilbo doesn't say anything else.

“Bilbo,” he murmurs when the hobbit is almost at the door. The halfling turns to look at him, his cheeks pink, but his eyes guarded. Dwalin swallows heavily, the decision he has made sitting heavily in his stomach, like a bad fruit.

“I will be leaving on the morrow,” he says, and the hobbit freezes, his face suddenly pale. Dwalin has a feeling he has said something very, very wrong.

“Of course,” Bilbo says, and leaves.

Dwalin sits in the armchair, listening to the sounds of Bilbo getting ready for bed in the next room. He stares in to the empty hearth for hours after the smial has gone completely quiet, and retires to his own bedroom when the mantleclock strikes two in the morning.

He doesn't sleep that night.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Dwalin had always enjoyed silence. Even as a lad he would climb the highest point of the battlements in the Blue Mountains, a place where even the guards rarely came, and sit with his legs hanging over the stony edge with naught but the soft murmur of the wind as company.

He had liked those moment of utter peace and quiet, liked the serenity found in being on his own, alone but for his thoughts. Even his King wasn't allowed to break that routine and it carried on for years. During their quest to reclaim Erebor, Dwalin would often sit away from the others and busy himself with cleaning and sharpening his axes. One pointed look would be enough for his King to know that his company wasn't welcome right now and he trusted his friend to keep the lads at bay until he was ready to rejoin them once more.

But this... this is different.

Dwalin stands in the doorway to his forge, the backpack still slung over his shoulder and his traveling cloak still fastened at the neck, and looks around the cold room with a sinking feeling in his chest. Everything is so quiet here; no childish shouts and shrieks, no patter of tiny feet trailing behind him, no humming in the kitchen, no whistling. Nothing.

The familiar, comforting silence to which he was so used to is now cold and foreboding, the stillness alien and unwanted.

Dwalin enters the forge, letting the door fall shut behind him, and wonders how on Middle Earth had the routine he followed so devoutly changed into something he'd rather never experience again. And after only a week in the halflings' company.

Dwalin's gaze sweeps over the forge once more, making sure nothing is missing, before he turns to the narrow, rickety staircase leading up into his lodgings. The room is even colder than the forge, though the sun is still shining through the dirty window, bathing the wooden floors in gentle warmth. He lets the backpack slide off his shoulder and onto the limp matress. The traveling cloak follows, tossed without care in the general direction of the lone chair. Grasper and Keeper he deposits much more carefully onto their stand in the corner before sitting heavily on his cot. It's hard and unyelding, so much different from the bed he slept in at Bag End, and Dwalin rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward, shoulders slumped in defeat.

Frodo cried bitterly when Dwalin told him he was leaving, fat tears rolling down his chubby cheeks as he clung to the dwarf's leg and begged him to stay.

The lad's tear-streaked face and heart-breaking sobs flash in his mind and Dwalin's fingers curl around his bare scalp as he bows his head and grits his teeth. Frodo had cried because of him and instead of tugging the lad close and giving him comfort, Dwalin simply patted his head and nudged him away towards Bilbo.

And Bilbo...

The hobbit's face was completely closed off when Dwalin said his goodbyes, a polite mask the Burglar put on whenever he saw his relatives or neighbours down in the village, and the dwarf cared for it as much as he cared for a warg. The expression looked so odd on Bilbo's usually animated face, so cold, and he hated to see it directed at him.

Dwalin lets his hands fall onto his knees, palms up, and he stares at them for a long moment, rubbing the rough skin on the inside of his right hand with the fingers of his left, as if chasing the lingering feeling of warmth.

He didn't mean to reach out to Bilbo. But his hand seemed to possess a life on its own because before Dwalin could react he was already leaning towards the hobbit with his hand held out for a handshake. Bilbo stared at it for a few excruciating seconds, but as the old warrior made a move to retreat, small, warm fingers wrapped around it.

Bilbo covered Dwalin's palm with both of his, holding it in a cradle of soft skin and gentle heat, and his green eyes lowered to look at their joined hands, his lips turned down at the corners, forehead scruched in thought.

“I'm sorry,” the halfling said softly, still refusing to look at the dwarf. “I'm sorry, I...” his voice cracked and Bilbo cleared his throat. When he rised his gaze back to Dwalin's face, his eyes were once again devoid of any emotion. His hands fell away from Dwalin's larger one, leaving it cold. “Please, do visit again.”

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Bilbo, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry._

Dwalin scowls, curling his fists and slaming them against his knees, hard.

“Fuck!”

 

*

 

He sends the gardening tools a week after that. There is no note attatched, though the little table up in his room is covered in ripped pieces of ruined letters. Dwalin burns them in the evening, watching the fire eat away his narrow handwrting.

 _I'm sorry,_ he thinks, staring at the flames and running his hands along the scars on his face. _I'm sorry, both of you._

 

*

 

The note that Bilbo sends back a few days after reads: _You sentimental oaf. Thank you. Frodo sends his love._

Dwalin whistles as he works for the rest of the day. He doesn't permit himself to hope.

 

*

 

_Brother,_

_I have every hope the raven will find you (_ if _it will find you, I know you have a knack for escaping any form of post, be it on horse-back or winged) in good health. I will be most disappoined and displeaded if Croäc returns with the news of finding you but receiving no letter in return. So sit down. Brother, and try to remember your letters that I had so diligently attempted to knock into your thick skull as a dwarfling. And mind how you write your runes, they always were awfully crooked._

_Before you get your knickers in a twist, Brother, let me assure you that this letter was sent in utter confidence and Croäc, faithful bird that he is, has promised not to speak a word about it to anyone. I am in no danger. So stop fussing._

_I'm sure it will please you to know that Erebor is on her way to recovery. He have finally removed and rebuilt the damage done by Smaug, and the treasury has ceased to smell of dragon. All is well in the Mountain. Thorin would have been proud to see it prosper once more._

_The Men of Dale are our allies and Bard (stop scowling) often comes by for a visit. He's a fine King and we talk about the days of old when time permits. I think he enjoys hearing about his ancestors, and I am more than happy to oblige him. You would have liked him, Dwalin, had he been a dwarf._

_As for me, I am kept busy as Dain's advisor. He's a good king (stop scowling, Brother, truly), just but firm if need be, and our people adore him. Although I am still furious with him for banishing you (you complete fool of a dwarf), I do believe he will be good for Erebor._

_Before you ask, I am well. Moria sits heavy on my mind as of late, indeed, and I have already started making preparations to march upon our ancestral home. Erebor's army is strong and Dain is confindent that this time we will be victorious, with orcs all but scattered and leaderless. Ori has expressed a wish to come with me. I might consider it – he's a good lad and a very fine scribe, and I'd be more than happy to have a familiar face on my journey there._

_I beg of you, Dwalin – write back to me. Erebor is not the same without you, and while I can honestly say I'm leading a life of comfort and peace, I miss my younger brother._

_The rest of the Company sends their greetings. Princess Dis urged me to pass on a message:_

“ _Dwalin, you complete pillock of a dwarf, I will have your head next time I see you, what were you thinking.”_

_Can't say I disagree with her._

_Be safe, Brother. Mahal be with you._

_Balin_

_P.S Have you forgiven yourself, Brother?_

Dwalin smiles down at the letter in his hands, absentmindedly passing a piece of raw meat to the starving raven, and sits down at the table. His hands shake as he carefully writes the runes, but something heavy lifts from his chest.

He doesn't answer Balin's question.

 

*

 

It's late autumn when a hobbit appears in his workshop. Holman looks exactly as he did when Dwalin has last seen him, and he greets the dwarf like an old friend.

“I bring letters,” he says with a grin, pulling out two slightly crumpled elvelopes. Dwalin recognizes Bilbo's handwriting and has to stop himself from reaching out and yanking the letters out of Holman's grasp. Instead, he watches the hobbit put them onto the worktop. His hand tightens around his hammer.

“How are you?” Holman asks, sitting down on the rickety chair. His gaze sweeps over Dwalin's scars on his jaw before reaching his eyes. Dwalin scowls.

“Well enough,” he answers gruffly, leaning against the counter. The letters are only a palm-width away from him. His fingers itch with the desire to read them right now, damn Holman and his knowing smile. But he waits patiently instead, letting the hobbit smirk at his stubborness.

“Good, good,” Holman says. “The Gamgees send their greetings. Little Sam was heart-broken when you left without saying goodbye.”

Dwalin feels a painful pang in his chest at the reminder and lowers his eyes.

“Was in a hurry,” he murmurs, not even able to convince himself. Holman knows he's lying but nods anyway.

“Of course,” he chirps. “Mister Bilbo will probably tell you he's fine and dandy in that letter, but don't let it fool you,” he adds after a while, a determined glint in his eye. “I've known him all his life and his act doesn't convince me. He misses you, he and Frodo both. The poor tyke wouldn't talk to anyone for days, Yavanna bless his furry feet.”

Dwalin stares at him as the hobbit gets up from the chair, his mind going completely blank.

Holman smiles when he notices his agitation. He reaches out, patting Dwalin's forearm.

“Whatever it is you're going through,” he says gently, and the dwarf instantly thinks “ _he knows_ ” before touching his scarred jaw, “whether it's grief or self-hatered or regret... there is no need to go suffer it alone.”

And with that, he leaves the forge with a cheerful “good day”. Dwalin stares after him, his mouth agape. His gaze slides towards the letters, but he shakes himself and turns back to work.

Before the day is over, he's almost smashes his fingers twice.

 

*

 

_Dear Mister Dwalin,_

_Uncel says I have to write to you bfore we visit so you know we are coming to see you! He says we have to ask your prmition tho I told him its fine and that you want to see us. You want to see us right Mister Dwalin? Please let us come. I miss you and Sam too I know cause he told me._

_Frodo_

Dwalin chuckles to himself lowly, his eyes tracing the clumsily written words. He can almost picture Frodo writing it, his little face scunched in concentration and his tongue pocking out of his mouth. Something in his chest twinges painfully at the though.

He puts the letter aside with utmost care, setting it down away from the flame of the candle. The other letter he opens slowly, hesitantly. Bilbo's handwriting is as neat as ever, the slightly curved letters so different from the dwarvish runes, and Dwalin lets his gaze sweep over them before settling on the top of the page to read.

 

_Dear Mister Dwalin,_

_Frodo has been pestering me to visit Bree for over a forthnight now and though I consider myself a strong-willed hobbit, my resolve is all but useless in the face of the lad's pleading eyes. I do hope it would not inconvince you in any way, and I can only promise that we would not overstay our welcome. I thought it would be fitting to leave on the morrow (today being Monday) and I do believe it would take us a week to reach the town as we wish to visit our relatives in Brandyhall. Unless you'd rather not see us, of course, or have a previous engagement, please let us know. Holman will deliver any messages you wish to pass on._

_I hope you are well._

_Yours truly,_

_Bilbo Baggins_

 

The letter is formal, almost cold in tone, and Dwalin feels his shoulders sag a bit in disappointment. And they're back to “Misters”, it seems.

And yet his ridiculous heart jumps in his chest at the “yours truly” at the end on the letter. Dwalin scowls to himself. Stashing the letters neatly into his drawer by the cot, he lays down and stares at the ceiling for a long time before sleep finally claims him.

 _Yours,_  his mind echoes and he smiles.

 


	8. Chapter 8

He doesn't bother with writing a letter – he gruffly tells Holman that Bilbo and Frodo are more than welcome to visit, anytime they wish, and silently hopes that the hobit will make the invitation sound more welcoming that he ever would, be it in person or on paper. He tries to hide his excitement and dread, but Holman is not to be fooled: his eyes crinkle when he smiles knowingly, but when he reaches out to pat the dwarf's shoulders in goodbye, his touch is warm and reassuring.

The next week passes so slowly Dwalin is almost sure the Valar have stopped the time just to torment him. He works until exhaustion allows him to simply walk up the stairs and collapse in an ungraceful heap onto his cot and sleep until the dawn of the next day. He doesn't dream, but his sleep is far from restful – he wakes disoriented and tired still, which makes him even more ill-temepered than usual. He snaps at his customers, and he snaps at his landlord's wife when she comes to bring him food, but the lady doesn't seem to be bothered by his foul mood. She scowls right back each time, clearly not impressed with him, and more often than not Dwalin feels guilty for being an arse to her while all she does is keeping him fed.

The forge distracts him somewhat, the familiar clang of metal hitting metal relaxing his tense body, but it doesn't stop his mind from whirling. In a few days, he will see Frodo and Bilbo, his hobbits, and for some reason the very thought makes him agitated. He wants to see them, of course, wants to see the lad again for he missed the little tyke more than he would ever admit, but seeing Bilbo will be a completely different pair of shoes.

Dwalin curses, snatching his hand away from the anvil and letting the hammer fall to the floor near his feet. His finger throbs painfully and the old warrior curses again, inspecting the damage carefuly. The finger is already starting to swell and the dwarf prods at it to check if its broken. He hisses in pain, but it's bearable, and he feels no bone shifting. Only bruised, thank Mahal.

He sits on his little stool, a frown marring his forehead. He stares blankly at the injured hand. He owes Bilbo the truth, he knows. The hobbit deserves to know why Dwalin cannot, _will not_ give him what he wants from him. Because he _thinks_ knows what Bilbo wants – he's no fool, and the distance from the hobbit helped him to see things clearly. Each glance Bilbo has ever given him was carefully considered, each touch pondered on and investigated.

He knows they need to talk. There are words that need to be said, whether the hobbit wants to hear them or not. But Dwalin has had enough of keeping silent, enough of drowning in his own misery and doubt, and even if the hobbit assures him that he's mistaken, that there is no... _romantic affection_ on his side, at least he will be able to go on with his life. He isn't very eager to talk about feelings, but it must be done, damn Bilbo and his beautiful smile, and his lovely eyes, and...

Dwalin squeezes his bruised finger and the pain shakes him out of such dangerous thoughts. There is no point to think such thoughts, after all. Even if Bilbo returned his feelings, even if he _wanted_ Dwalin as much as Dwalin wanted him, it cannot be.

Dwalin is not worthy. He's not worthy of the hobbit's affection, he's not worthy to stand by his side. He snorts loudly, the sound echoing in the empty forge. What a fool he has been. Thinking it's just desire he feels for the hobbit, just the pent up energy longing to be released... what a _fool._

He should have known, should have noticed as soon as he saw Bilbo's tear-streaked face and the pitful sight made his chest clench in a way he had not experienced before.

He loves him. Oh, Mahal, help him. He loves the damn Burglar.

 

*

 

Frodo doesn't look much different – the same dark, curly hair, the same tiny body (though he might have grown a little bit since the last time Dwalin saw him), the same bright, easy grin, the same blue eyes. The same joyful shriek as he launched himself at the dwarf, short legs carrying him as fast as they could towards him.

Dwalin crouches and opens his arms just in time to catch Frodo before he slams face first into his chest. His arms wrap around the lad immediately, pressing him tightly but carefully closer, and Dwalin hides his face in the hobbitling's hair. His shoulders relax, and he lets out a bark of laughter when Frodo leans back and almost climbs him to get a better look at his face.

“Mister Dwalin!” the lad says breathlessly, toothy grin splitting his face, and Dwalin's heart swells in his chest at the sight.

“Frodo,” he says in return, grimacing at the roughness of his voice. The hobbitling doesn't seem to notice – instead, his little hands grasp Dwalin's ears and he knock their foreheads together in a dwarven greeting. The gesture makes the old warrior gasp and tighten his arms around the lad. It's been so long... so long since...

He swallows thickly, listening to Frodo chatter about everything that's been going on since he left, about Sam and his rabbits, and Missus Bell's enormous pumpkins, and Uncle Bilbo's prized tomatoes winning _again_ in the annual contest...

Speaking of Bilbo.

The Halfling stands in the entrance to the forge, watching them with a blank expression on his face, and Dwalin feels his heart sink. He shouldn't have expected a warm greeting. He shouldn't have expected Bilbo to run up to him much like Frodo did and jump into his arms. He shouldn't have...

_Fool._

“Good afternoon,” Bilbo says when his gaze meets Dwalin's, and the dwarf slowly lets go of Frodo and stands, ruffling the lad's hair.

“Afternoon,” he murmurs back, his back so stiff it aches. He longs to cross the distance between them and hold the blasted hobbit close to him, to feel his smaller body pressed to his from head to toe, but he knows he cannot. He _cannot._

“We need to talk,” he says quickly before his resolve breaks. Bilbo looks taken aback and his cheeks pale slightly but he nods, stepping into the workshop. Frodo blinks in confusion, looking from the dwarf to his Uncle with a frown on his little face.

“Yes,” Bilbo murmurs, stepping closer to his nephew. He smiles down at the hobblitling. “Frodo, can you find Holman? I think he's waiting by the cart.”

The lad looks like he wants to protest, his fingers curling around Dwalin's hand tightly, but after a moment of hesitation his face clears and he smiles a little. The dwarf frowns, suddenly suspicious.

“Yes, Uncle,” Frodo says, letting go of the smith's hand and runs outside without as much as a glance back. Dwalin narrows his eyes. Has Holman been talking to Frodo about-?

Bilbo clears his throat awkwardly and the dwarf realizes he's been staring at his guest with a thunderous frown on his face. Blast it...

“Sit,” he says, trying to sound gentle, but it comes out more like an order than invitation. He grimaces, but Bilbo doesn't seem to mind. He sits on the stool gingerly, looking everywhere but at Dwalin, his face blank and closed off. The warrior sighs, lowering himself slowly onto the wooden, rickety chair.

They sit in silence for a while, unsure where to begin. The silence stretches between them like an abyss, deep and dark, and Dwalin opens his mouth to say anything at all to break it.

“I'm sorry” is what comes out of his mouth, low and barely audible. Bilbo hears him anyway, of course he does, his head snapping up to meet his gaze in astonishment.

“I'm sorry,” Dwalin repeats, and it's like a dam has broken in his chest because he lowers himself from the chair and onto his knees in front of the hobbit who stares at him as if he's grown another pair of limbs. “I'm sorry,” he says again, bowing his head so that it rests on Bilbo's hands clasped on his lap. They're warm, as always, and soft.

“Stop,” Bilbo whispers, tracing the thick scars with his fingers. Dwalin exhales heavily, pressing his forehead harder against Bilbo's knee.

“I'm sorry,” he murmurs, his hands reaching out to wrap around the halfling's calves. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't,” Bilbo pleads, his voice thick with tears. Dwalin lets the hobbit pull his head up and he meets his gaze, green eyes bright with unshed tears. “Don't.”

Dwalin's knees ache pressed against the rough stone, but he pays them no heed as Bilbo leans forward and presses his forehead to Dwalin's, his fingers tightening on the dwarf's head. “Don't say that,” the Burglar says quietly, closing his eyes. He breathes out shakily, warm breath gusting over Dwalin's face and he shudders like a newborn fawn.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers against Bilbo's mouth. “Forgive me.”

“Always,” Bilbo whispers back, and suddenly there are lips on his own, soft and sweet and gentle, and Dwalin tilts his head back a little to deepen the kiss, his fingers tightening on Bilbo's calves. It's a brief kiss, far shorter than the dwarf would have liked, but it leaves his mouth tingling and his head spinning in a way he has never experienced before.

Bilbo is staring at him, their noses brushing with each breath they take, and Dwalin realizes that he has not inteded to let this happen at all. He moves back slowly, already missing he warmth of the hobbit's body, but he doesn't make a move to stand. Bilbo looks down at him, his large feet brushing the smith's sides.

“We can't,” he mutters then, looking away. Bilbo stiffens. “ _I_ can't.”

“Why not?” the hobbit asks. He's tense, ready to bolt at any second, but his hands are careful as he rests them against Dwalin's scarred cheeks.

 _I'm not worthy,_ Dwalin wants to say. _I killed my King. I'm not worthy of your love. I'm sorry._

“I can't,” he repeats instead and something must have shown on his face because Bilbo's eyes widen and his face softens in understanding.

“Fool,” he murmurs, running his fingers along the warrior's cheeks. “Of course you can.”

Dwalin closes his eyes tightly with a chocked sound. Bilbo's hands touch his eyelids, gently, so gently, and the hobbit leans closer again, his lips grazing his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his cheeks, his scars, and he realizes with horror that there are tears on his cheeks and a sob in his throat. He releases it, a choked, mournful sound. Bilbo tugs him closer then, wrapping his thin arms around Dwalin's neck and rests his cheek on the top of the dwarf's head, shielding him from the world.

Dwalin's tears soak the hobbit's shirt and waistcoat. His whole body shakes powerfully, shuddering in the hobbit's arms. His hands curl around Bilbo and hold on tightly but the Burglar doesn't seem to care - he's murmuring something softly, too softly for Dwalin to hear, but the sound of his voice helps him to ground himself, to push the grief that threatens to drown him away.

“I'm sorry,” he sobs, “I'm so sorry.”

_Thorin. Thorin, forgive me._

“It wasn't your fault,” Bilbo whispers, his mouth grazing Dwalin's ear. “Wasn't your fault.”

“I killed them,” he chokes out, fingers tightening on Bilbo's waistcoat.

“No, no,” he halfling murmurs. “Please, you must believe me. You did everything you could to save them.”

“I tried to reach them,” he manages to say, “I tried but there were too many, I couldn't- I wasn't _strong_ enough to-”

Bilbo pushes at his shoulders gently and for a moment Dwalin thinks the hobbit will leave him, abandon him to darkness and the cold and the silence of the empty forge and he tightens his hold on the halfling desperately, hiding his face in the soft material covering his belly.

“Look at me,” Bilbo says gently, tugging at his hears to make him look up. He obeys slowly, flinching when the hobbit's fingers wipe away the wetness on his cheeks. His eyes ache and all he wants to do is lay down and sleep, to forget everything.

Bilbo is gazing at him but there is no pity in his eyes, only quiet understanding.

“I blamed myself for a long time,” he says quietly then and Dwalin's back straightens as he opens his mouth to tell Bilbo that none of it was his fault, but the halfling lifts his hand to silence him. “Listen. I blamed myself, because if I had done things differently then maybe, m-maybe Thorin and the lads would still live, happy and content.”

Dwalin shakes his head, desperately trying to tell Bilbo that no fault lays with him, but the hobbit has none of it. “I thought,” he sobs, tears spilling onto his round cheeks, “I thought that if only I wasn't so foolish, so careless, maybe I wouldn't be struck down by that stupid rock. I could have fought for them, I could have saved them!”

Bilbo wipes his eyes and then smiles sadly. “Now I see that it wasn't my fault. The orcs and the goblins killed Thorin and his nephews.”

Dwalin bows his head. “I was supposed to protect them,” he says finally, clenching his hands into tight fists.

“And you did,” Bilbo says gently. “You were pushed back and you fought admirably. I saw you, I saw how fiercely you tried to get to Thorin. But there too many of them. No warrior would be able to break through so many enemies.”

“What do you know, halfling,” Dwalin growls, moving back suddenly. He makes a move to stand but Bilbo's hands clench his shoulders with surprising strength, keeping him in place. “You know nothing of war.”

“But you do,” Bilbo snaps, his fingers digging into his skin like claws. “You do and you _know_ there was no way to get to Thorin, not with so many orcs surrounding you.”

Dwalin's shoulders slump and he leans forward once more, resting his head on Bilbo's arm. He exhales heavily.

“I'm tired,” he whispers after a while and Bilbo sighs above him, his hands kneading the tense muscles on his back.

“Come on, then,” the hobbit murmurs. They stand slowly and together move to the rickety staircase leading up to Dwalin's room. He's too tired to care about the mess and Bilbo doesn't seem to notice either – he leads the dwarf to his cot in the corner of the room, and helps him to lay down slowly.

“Frodo,” Dwalin murmurs as Bilbo bats his hands away and removes his boots. “Is he-”

“He's fine,” Bilbo whispers. “Holman will take care of him.”

The dwarf grunts in answer, letting the halfling fuss over him as he lays down on the hard matress.

“Stay,” he says, not caring one bit he sounds pleading, and Bilbo chuckles sadly.

“I'm not going anywhere,” he mutters, and Dwalin closes his eyes when his cot dips slightly and a small, warm body presses into his side. He curls around it and hides his face in the nest of golden curls, inhaling the scent of Old Toby and spring.

“Stay,” he says again into the soft hair, and Bilbo presses harder into him.

“I will,” he answers.

Dwalin lets himself sleep.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: some smut.

_He's too late._

_He sees Oin leave the tent, hands bloodied up to his elbows with blood. The dwarves gathered nearby stand up and silence falls over the field. Dwalin's steps falter._

“ _King Thorin is dead,” the healer says and Dwalin stops, as if struck. There's roaring in his ears, his mouth taste like blood, his knees buckle under him; has it not been for Balin's steady hand around his waist he would have tumbled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut off._

“ _No,” he says numbly, “no, no, no.”_

_But the sees Oin's grief-stricken face and the halfling's small body perched on the log outside the tent, shuddering with heart-wrenching sobs. He turns numbly to see tears on Balin's cheeks, but his brother's grief is silent, as always._

“ _Balin,” he pleads, “Balin, say it isn't true.”_

 _Balin only shakes his head and the arm supporting Dwalin tightens around his waist._ “ _Let's go back,” he says quietly, but Dwalin digs his heels into the ground, shaking his  brother off._

“ _I need to see him,” he snaps, frantic, and hurries towards the tent. The stitches that keep his insides right where they're supposed to be burn and the pain almost blinds him, but he doesn't slow down until his hand grasps the flap leading into the tent. Ignoring Balin's shouts (“you insufferable idiot, you'll kill yourself!”), he enters._ _Thorin is laid out on a low cot, his broken body wrapped in furs and soft linnen. He appears to be asleep – there is a frown on his brow and a shadow of a displeased grimace around his stern mouth like in slumber, but his chest doesn't move and his skin seems waxy, pale as if the King has never seen sunlight in his life. Dwalin knows it isn't true, knows that Thorin's skin is dark, darker even that his, this cannot be right, this cannot be Thorin, this pale shell of a body is not his friend..._

_He staggers forward and falls to his knees next to the cot, his eyes raking the dwarf's prone form, looking for anything that would mark him as_ not _Thorin. But it is only his skin that is different – his long black hair is washed from blood and gore and neatly braided (the Halfling's work, no doubt), his nose straight and long, a Durin's nose (_ not broken, _Dwalin thinks numbly,_ thank Mahal for small mercies, he would moan about it for the next fifty years, the vain bastard _), bold brow making him appear as brooding even when a smile graced his stern lips._

“ _No,” Dwalin insists, reaching out to grasp his friend's jaw. It's cold, colder than ice, and he shakes Thorin gently. “No, wake up, you pillock.”_

_He shakes him again, harder, desperate for any sign of movement. But Thorin remains still._

“ _Thorin,” he pleads, “Thorin, damn you, this isn't funny!”_

_The King's head rolls to the side, limp, but his eyes are suddenly open, icy-blue orbs fixed on him._

“ _You killed me,” Thorin says. Blood gushes out of his mouth, unnaturally dark, coating his chin. “You did this! Look at me! LOOK! Traitor!”_

“ _No, no,” Dwalin mutters and tries to lean back, to escape, terror gripping his heart like claws, but Thorin's ice-cold hand shoots out and grasps his in a vice-like grip._

“ _Dwalin!” Another voice reaches him, thinner, more frantic, but Dwalin cannot speak, he cannot even scream for Thorin's hands are around his throat, squeezing so hard he sees stars._

“ _Kingslayer,” Thorin sneers, shaking him until his teeth rattle. “You killed me!”_

“ _Dwalin, wake up!”_

His eyes snap open.

The first thing he notices is the weight on his chest, pushing him down into the limp matress of his cot. He panics for a moment, the nightmare still holding fast, terror and grief making him struggle weakly, but the creature sprawled half across his body presses into him even more.

“It's alright,” soothes a voice that is not Thorin's baritone filled with hate, and Dwalin's eyes focus on the person hovering above him. Golden curls and green, green eyes come into view then, a small frown marring a smooth, rosy-cheeked face. He releases a long, quiet groan as recognition dawns upon him, his head falling back onto the pillow. He closes his eyes, averting his face from the Burglar, but his treacherous arm tightens around the Halfling's waist, bringing the small, warm body closer.

“Dwalin,” Bilbo breathes somewhere near his collarbone. The old warrior sighs heavily.

“Yes,” he murmurs, not allowing himself to look at the hobbit just yet. Bilbo tuts in exasperation.

“Now, stop that,” he says firmly, reaching out to pat the dwarf's cheek. Gentle fingers run along the edge of his jaw and Dwalin leans into the touch. The hobbit chuckles quietly when short stubble tickles the soft skin of his hands. “Won't you look at me?”

“No,” he mumbles, but his shoulders relax as Bilbo continues the soothing ministrations until the terror disappears from his heart, leaving behind only grief. But with grief he is well acquainted, and so he turns his head and opens his eyes. Bilbo is still hovering above him, his small body half on top of his. Dwalin's arm about his waist is the only thing keeping him from tumbling to the ground as the cot they're sprawled on is much too small to accommodate the two of them. He tightens his grip, moving slightly to make more room for his hobbit.

Something warms in his chest at the thought.

His. _His_ hobbit.

“There you are,” Bilbo whispers, his radiant face stretching into a smile. Dwalin feels his lips twitch in answer, but he grunts instead which draws another sweet giggle from Bilbo.

“How long did I sleep?” the dwarf asks quietly as the Burglar settles carefully at his side, his soft body pressed into him. Bilbo shrugs.

“Not very long. An hour at most.”

“Hm.”

Dwalin's eyes trace the path of the sun upon the wooden floor, his mind whrilling. The dream has been nothing new – a reaccuring nightmare of his King calling him a traitor, a kingslayer. But this time, Bilbo had managed to pull him out of it. Not before terror had his heart in its cold grip, but soon enough to prevent anything close to weeping. He's had enough of tears to last him a life time, though his chest feels lighter than it had in years and his grief, still burning hot in his soul, is more bearable, more like a part of him now than something to be pushed away and burried deep under the work and exhaustion.

Dwalin glances down as a small hand begins tracing slow patterns on his chest, the innocent touch sending a flare of heat right into his belly. Bilbo isn't looking at him – his eyes are trained on the laces of Dwalin's shirt, a frown upon his brow. The dwarf reaches out with his free hand to smooth out the small wrinkle. Bilbo's cheeks redden.

“Do you-” he starts, the skin on his forehead drawing together again under the old warrior's fingers. Dwalin grunts in encouragement, his blue eyes locked on the Halfling's face. The hobbit swallows. “Do you think we... that we...”

Dwalin sighs heavily and feels Bilbo stiffen beside him, his body taunt like a bowstring.

“I do not deserve you,” Dwalin murmurs, but tightens his arm around the Burglar as he moves to draw away, “but I do not think I can stop myself. I'm a weak dwarf, Master Hobbit. I find I cannot let you go, now that I have you in my grasp.”

Bilbo laughs, startled but delighted, and he relaxes once more, his chin propped on Dwalin's chest. He smiles brightly, blushing a faint pink. The dwarf's breath catches in his chest at the sight.

“What a romantic you are, Master Dwarf,” he teases, but his eyes are bright with happiness. He stretches slightly so that his lips hover over Dwalin's, warm breath caressing the dwarf's cheeks and chin, “who would have thought,” he adds in a whisper.

The hand resting on the halfling's side moves to twist in his golden curls as Dwalin claims the sweet mouth in a rough kiss. His pathetic excuse of a beard rubs against Bilbo's cheeks and chin, but he doesn't seem to mind, not at all – he grabs Dwalin's ears to keep him in place and moans, eagerly opening his lips to let the dwarf's tongue explore the sweet warmth of his mouth. Dwalin does not need additional invitation; he dives into it like a dwarf starving for breath, his hands tugging at Bilbo's hair for a better angle, groaning into the kiss.

Dwalin had never been one for gentleness. All of his previous tumbles have been dwarves, strong, hardy warriors, and a little roughhousing had been welcomed, even desired. Kissing had been something he indulged in rarely, as his partners, and in fact he himself, were against the idea – too intimate for a short release, kissing was considered off limits more often than not.

Now, Dwalin has to reign in his strength and control himself least he hurt Bilbo by accident – the hobbit is much, much more delicate than the dwarves he has had relations with, and though Bilbo had proven that he can hold his own Dwalin is not going to risk it. His hands are as gentle as they are impatient as they slide through the Halfling's hair and down to caress the weirdly shaped ear, ghosting over the pointy tip ever so slowly. Bilbo's body shivers against his at that, his eyes fluttering closed and mouth opening in a silent “o”, his small hands clenching the fabric of Dwalin's shirt and holding on for dear life.

“Oh, Dwalin, _please_...”, the hobbit breathes out, sprawled across the dwarf's body, but his lover ignores the quiet plea for more, moving slowly down towards the deliciously pale column of Bilbo's throat. He presses his lips to the space right under the Burglar's jaw and suckles delicately, his own body thrumming with arousal as Bilbo gives another low moan and writhes on top of him, his cheeks pink, lips wet and bruised from kisses.

Dwalin's hands knead the luscious skin of the hobbit's sides, caressing each curve and cranny, and Bilbo presses back against him, so responsive to his every touch, so eager that for a second Dwalin doesn't quite know what to do next. He has never had a lover so desperate for him, so needy, and yet so delicate and small. He stills, unsure. Bilbo's skin is so soft and unblemished where his own is scarred and rough. His hands are calloused from working the forge and swinging an axe for years; he had broken _bones_ with those hands, bones of dwarrows far more sturdy than Bilbo. What if he hurts him by accident? Dwalin has never been known for his _control_ while in the throes of passion. Indeed, he was even considered a bit _too rough_ sometimes. If he were to cause his hobbit, his, _his own_ , pain...

“Don't you dare stop now,” Bilbo pants out breathlessly, shifting so that he can sit astride Dwalin. His hips roll teasingly in a smooth motion and the dwarf releases a gruttual moan that may as well be a growl as their groins, still clad in trousers, rub against each other. He can feel his hobbit's arousal, the heat of his skin as he squirms against the warrior again and again, low moans escaping his mouth with each move.

“Don't want to hurt you,” Dwalin murmurs roughly, lowering his eyes to look at small but quick hands undoing the laces of his shirt.

“You won't,” Bilbo says quietly, coaxing him to lift up his arms.

Deft fingers move to his suddenly naked chest, and Bilbo moans with appreciaton when his hands run along his lover's naked skin, tugging lightly at the thick, dark hair that spread over Dwalin's pectorals, down to his muscular stomach and down, down still where the hairs are rougher, disappearing into the line of his trousers.

The dwarf's hips buck upwards at that, breath stuttering in his throat, and Bilbo grins deviously, tugging again and again, the delicious pain-pleasure spreading across the old warrior's body like a flame.

“Careful,” Dwalin grunts, grasping Bilbo's hands as they move to tease his nipples. “I cannot promise to control myself should you continue."

Bilbo gazes at him for moment, his green eyes darkened with desire. “Like I care.” And with that, he leans down and kisses the dwarf again, his mouth hot and desperate. Dwalin growls into the kiss, hugging Bilbo tightly to his chest, the hobbit's buttocks rubbing deliciously against his groin, and he flips them and pins the hobbit down to the cot with his body. The Burglar's golden hair spread around his head like a halo, cheeks beautifuly pink as he stares up at Dwalin, panting as if he just ran half a mile at full sprint. The dwarf growls again deep in his throat and yanks at Bilbo's shirt until the delicate fabric rips (much to Bilbo's dismay), leaving the hobbit's pale chest bare before the warrior's eyes. He lowers his mouth to the soft skin, moaning roughly when Bilbo digs his fingers into the back of his neck as he licks the nipple again and again until its wet and stiff under his lips before moving to the other.

“Ah, Valar have mercy,” Bilbo mutters with a soft cry, wrapping his legs around his lover's hips and tugging him closer until their chests are pressed tightly together, the heat between them already making their bodies slick with sweat.

Bilbo's hand sneaks between them, blunt nails dragging against Dwalin's stomach as he moves down to cup the dwarf through his trousers. Dwalin rests his forehead on the halfling's sternum, grunting and gasping as the small, _sneaky_ hand caresses him slowly, fleeting touches that send another flare of heat right into his loins. In all of his life he has never been so hard, _aching_ for another's touch.

“Off, off,” Bilbo mutters, tugging at the buttons of Dwalin's pants. As soon as the fabric yelds to the hobbit's fingers they disappear inside, his hand almost cool against the heat of Dwalin's cock.

The warrior makes a startled sound but it quickly turns into a long, deep moan at the feeling of his Burglar's soft hand around his member, moving in slow, maddening strokes.

“Bilbo,” he growls warningly but the hobbit ignores him, deftly untying his own trousers, pushing them down with haste, and presses their groins together in one swift motion. The warrior bellows into the halfling's neck, his fingers gripping Bilbo's hips enough to leave bruises. Bilbo cries out, his back arching up from the bed when the dwarf's hips snap forward, their cocks rubbing together with each shallow thrust.

“D-Dwal-” The warrior swallows his lover's cries with a bruising kiss, nipping at his lips and tongue as he takes them both in his hand, his strokes faster and harder. Bilbo squirms below him, his chest a faint red from rubbing against Dwalin's, his hips pushing into the dwarf's grip desperately.

“Please, oh please,” the hobbit sobs against Dwalin's mouth, “more, please.”

Dwalin does not respond to the quiet plea – he kneels on the cot instead, and before Bilbo has a chance to protest at the sudden distance between their bodies the dwarf pulls his hips higher so that the hobbit's sweet, plump buttocks rest against his strong tighs. He looms over the halfling then, his back bend over the panting Burglar entirely at his mercy, and snaps his hips forward again. His cock rubs between Bilbo's legs and against his member, hard as a rock and already leaking. The hobbit covers his mouth with his palm as he screams, trying to muffle the noises, but Dwalin has none of it – he grabs the halfling's hands and holds them above his head, leaving his lover's chest and belly exposed, the noises escaping the Halfling's mouth making him dizzy with desire. He lowers his head swiftly and takes one of the pink, hard nubs between his lips, grazing it over and over again with his teeth as his hips speed up their movement, and Bilbo wails and arches his back once more, pressing harder into Dwalin's mouth.

As the dwarf moves his hands to bury them in the hobbit's hair, his fingers brush against the pointy tip of his ear and the Halfling suddenly screams, body taunt like a bow-string, and comes, his hot seed coating Dwalin's cock and stomach. Seeing Bilbo like this - in throes of passion, his lovely face twisted with pleasure, his legs trembling with the force of his release – sends Dwalin over the edge as well, and he bellows his pleasure as he comes, his hips snapping harshly against the soft skin of Bilbo's tighs again and again until he collapses, worn out and wonderfully relaxed.

Bilbo hums as the dwarf's heavy body presses into him even more but he doesn't protest. They remain in place for a long moment, both catching their breath, Dwalin still on his knees with Bilbo's bum on his lap, the dwarf's thick fingers clenching the hobbit's hips as if he feared his lover would disappear if he let him go. Bilbo's hands are slow and soothing as he moves them over the back of Dwalin's neck and his shoulders, proding gently until the dwarf moves with a grunt and lays next to him on the narrow cot.

Bilbo's shirt is still tangled around his arms, trousers wrapped around his leg at the knee, and he sighs and moves to take them off despite Dwalin's muffled protests. The dwarf's trousers are tangled around his ankles, but he does not seem to care – he kicks them off in one smooth motion, his bare body pressing into Bilbo's as the hobbit lays back down with a pleased noise.

They remain in silence for a long while, Dwalin's thick arm wrapped around Bilbo's waist and his strong leg nestled between the hobbit's to keep him from falling off of the cot's edge.

It is Bilbo who speaks first, well aware that Dwalin is not asleep.

“Come back with me to the Shire. With us. Come back with us. Please.”

Dwalin says nothing for what seems like hours, but his muscular arm tightens around Bilbo.

“Alright,” he mumbles finally, pressing his face to the hobbit's hair. Bilbo smiles brightly and giggles, grasping the old warrior's rough hand in his and brings it to his mouth.

“I love you,” he murmurs against the scarred, tattooed knuckles. He feels Dwalin's body go taunt against his back before relaxing again, the dwarf's sigh stirring the short hair at the nape of Bilbo's neck. He whispers something, the words harsh and gruttual despite the warmth of Dwalin's voice, his hand gentle as it moves in a slow stroke along the hobbit's side and hip.

“Westron,” Bilbo chides gently, but the dwarf simply grunts, tightens his grip on the hobbit and doesn't say anything else.

 

*

 

There are times when Dwalin leaves Bag End for a few days and travels to Ered Luin ,clad in his old furs and light armour, axes slung across his back. He never enters the dwarven city - he stays at the foot of the Blue Mountains and camps in their shadow, away from the main road leading up to the gates. He spends his time there hunting and thinking about the past, gazing at the grand mountains with longing.

He remembers his childhood there, with Balin devoutly trying to teach him his letters and history; the times he had spent with Fili and Kili, teaching them to fight, showing them what it truly means to be a warrior; the times he had spent at his King's side, hunting or simply wandering the forests on the slopes of the kingdom, sometimes sparring among the trees. “Have to keep ya sharp, yer royal princess,” Dwalin would say with a laugh as he swung his battle axe, only to have Thorin dodge his hit in one smooth, graceful move, his stern face flushed from the exercise but smiling with contentment. “Younglings these days,” Thorin would shout back before their weapons clashed together, “no respect for their elders.” And Dwalin would laugh and laugh as they traded hit after hit until sweat glistened on their faces and stung their eyes.

But those days are no more, and Dwalin mourns his King, his young princes. After a few days he swings his axes onto his back once more and returns to the Shire, to Bag End, where Bilbo Baggins greets him with a wide, though slightly sad smile, his lovely green eyes full of sympathy.

He puts the weapons and his armour away from Frodo's curious fingers and follows Bilbo into the kitchen where the hobbit fusses over him, watching his every move like a hawk. He's worried, he always is when Dwalin goes away, but he knows the dwarf needs some time to himself, to remember and to think.

After Frodo is tucked into his bed, they retire to their bedroom and Bilbo embraces his tightly, murmuring words of comfort as they undress. Dwalin is usually too tired to do anything more than collapse onto the bed on evenings like this, and they curl up together under the blankets, Bilbo pressed into his side, warming away the chill that lingers in his bones – neither of them are young anymore after all, but the hobbit always seems to cherish these moments of tendernes, the whispered harsh-sounding Khuzdul murmured against his lips as they lay together, Dwalin's arms wrapped around the hobbit's waist possessively.

In the morning, Dwalin dresses and goes out to the forge in the old mill. He fixes pans and shovels for the hobbits, but more often than not the Rangers (“damn them and their arrow-heads!”) show up at the smithy to comission weapons and sometimes even armours from the bald, beardless, sullen dwarf who growls and curses whenever they enter his forge but never fails to complete the job. Sometimes, Frodo dashes into the forge with Bilbo following calmly with a basket in his hand and they sit together and eat, listening to the lad's cheerful chattering and trading amused looks. And if they return back home hand in hand, Dwalin's broad fingers wrapped around his Burglar's small, delicate ones, none of the hobbits dare to say a word.

As it is, the life with Bilbo Baggins is a slow-paced, quiet one.

But Dwalin is not alone. And there is no more silence.

 


End file.
